I am exhausted.

 

My colors have faded from the overpowering, “golden” rays of knowledge in which I should be grateful for.

But I am not.

 

I sit and I write useless things about useless topics that give me no passion, give me no reason to go on.

 

How a sip of water never tasted so refreshing.

To be able to escape the grey for a cooling clear of blue.

Paint a picture of revived in your imagination, and fantasize about what you could be versus what you are now.

How constricting a fantasy can be.

            Something I cannot share.

                        Why?

                                    Is what I wish to have in my life that repulsive?

                                                Does it annoy you?

                                                            Do I disgust you?

                                                            Because you don’t disgust me.

                                                Because I care.

                                    I want to know.

                        Every detail

From the feeling of horror when monsters swallow you whole, where your nightmares claw at you, feast on you. Become you.

To the rush you feel when you see him caress that skin you hate so much, feel him kiss it inch by inch sweetly.

I want to hear it all.

Because maybe, just maybe…

I think about them too.

 

I scream. I cry. I am not afraid to admit that I too look at myself naked in the mirror, envision myself a different person. Become disgusted with myself. I can pretend all I want that I am a strong, mighty woman who doesn’t need anyone but herself.

            I am not that strong.

With so much love to give, who will love me back?

Maybe I force myself to love who I am, when inside, I hate every fiber that is me.

            I need someone to love my skin for me.

            I need someone to slap my hands away when I try to cover my ugly, beautiful, and undesirably adorable freckles.

            I need someone to want me.

            I need.

But I am shy, therefore I do not take action.

And so I sit

            And wait

                        For someone

                                    To find me

And not care about the things I think of.

But who does that?

Seriously.

How would you react if you knew of my obsessions? My passions? My fantasies?
If I gave you the key to my Palace, would you see the broken gears and run?

 

Or try to fix me?