Cry for me. Scream at me. Think of me.
Please don't mock me.
In actual fact, on the outside, I don't care at all what you say or do, but it cuts into me like a razor, all the more powerfully because I want to hate you, I want you to hate me. I can't be alone, however much I want to be. I need your hate to make me grow. I need your love to make me hate you all.
If you mock me, I will cry out and you will all catch fire. My hatred and anger and every emotion I possess will be vomited out of my fragile body, and you'll all feel the burn.
No. I'm fooling myself.
Mock me all you want.
What can I do?
Small light in the distance. Growing. Fast. Light at the end of the tunnel. Suddenly finding out that the light at the end of the tunnel is your best friend with a flamethrower. Your best friend is your worst enemy, and you'd better believe it. They'll fuck you until you bleed.
Don't trust them. They're only screwing with you until they find someone from whom they can gain something. You're their target practice.
Confirm it. Let the weight crush you.
Hold onto every piece of bad news you ever got, and make sure you remember it well. Stockpile bad moments, like butterflies and moths in glass cases, so you can relive every nightmare, relive every slight nuance of sadness and negativity.
Hold it close to your heart, and treasure it like your first born child.
I am smitten with my own complex emotions. My emotions convulse like a snake that's dying. They convulse like an epileptic in orgasm. I am breaking apart, and yet I really, ultimately feel like I am only now starting to realise what completion means. I can't help it if I really am breaking, can I?
I've been so very, very sick. I don't want to have to get better.
I'm starting to wonder if I really do love you. I'm sitting here, wondering if this reciprocal coldness is imaginary, and then if it even means anything. I'm listening to R.E.M for comfort, because Michael Stipe's voice is the voice of you, of my best friend, of my mother, of the brother that I never had. It is the most comforting sound I think I know.
I think I am actually losing my religion. One of the few certainties I've had to cling to, like the certainty of death to a man who is lying in a pit of vicious cobras, is that I love you. Now I don't think I do. I am conceiving of a life without you, in preparation for the seeming inevitability of our separation. I'm very uncertain.
I wore your dress and I stole your lipstick. We are no more than chemicals, but even so I like to dress up before I go out to get raped time and again by people who think they're doing me a service, by my nearest and dearest who clumsily make my flesh crawl and every negative emotion ever devised rise up inside me like a tsunami.
I put mascara all over my body, marking out the words "loser", "coward", "whore", "fake".
Give me attention or I'll fucking set you on fire.