i have to try and get this out. there is something inside me that’s pushing hard on my ghost and making it impossible breathe easy.
i don’t feel good right now. i thought a make out sesh sans strings would help but it seems to have exacerbated the issue. i wanted to be physically close to someone for a moment— to have a person serve as a temporary place holder. maybe everything would have worked out as planned if the person i picked to place hold wasn’t such an asshole. i have a feeling that doesn’t even matter though. i think instead of passing relief i amplified the voice inside. now i can’t think through the pleas for intimacy.
i understand fully that you can’t just find someone. it a weird timing issue where pluto has to align with mars on the third year of the fourth month of ricki lake’s menstrual cycle or some inconvienant shit like that. i think it’s easier to casually make out when you have no expectation of finding someone any time soon. that’s really fucking depressing to me.
someone told me earlier this week in response to my whining that i would not be happier if i had someone. it has nothing to do with happiness. i’m perfectly happy now. i love being alive and doing whatever the fuck i want. in fact, an “other” would seemingly complicate and bring saddness and annoyance into my life. the point of wanting someone is closeness. i would like a companion. i would like to be the object of affection. i would like to have someone want me around. i want reciprocity, god damn it. most of all, i want relief from everything that comes with da single lyfe.
i don’t know if this holds true universally for women but i’m tired of being sought after by men. i feel so worthless— like the only thing i have to offer of value is a pretty enough face. boys want me around because how i make them feel. is that different from wanting me around because of who i am? it seems like it is. please life, i don’t want to be tried on for fit any more.
and there i exist. living without having life, totally supported by a hundred hungry limbs pulling and riping it all apart. a feast of desire— relentless but brief binging and purging until there is nothing left but whatever i’m needed to be. and there i do not exist.
