i want him to think i'm beautiful and significant

because, though i've been clearing my mind and feeling happy, the words from the past boomerang endlessly though my mind, piercing my neurons again and again until the neurotransmitters fizzle and burn out and i wince and my brain smokes and my heart slowly melts through my back through the floor through the earth

through the goddamn universe itself until it's gone, gone from what i can fathom, gone from my conception of existence, gone until it doesn't hurt anymore

but i pull myself away from those depressing dreams. i'm smiling because i'm happy even though it hurts because i try to find joy in the small things. like nails that glisten like rubies even though i kind of suck at putting on nail polish

i examine my almost-flat tummy and i think, well, at least i'm close and i figure, gee, if they airbrushed me i'd have a taut stomach too. i did about 17 sit ups and then started reading book covers in the closet, remembering the places they'd taken me but then

i come back to this moment and i think

it'd be pretty nice if he thought i was beautiful and significant, but if he didn't, well, that'd be okay too but not as okay. the truth ain't always eloquent. 

social interaction is all about acting how you feel like acting. i mean, truly feel. it's about listening to what people say and genuinely responding to it. i guess people who are anxious in social situations don't trust how they feel because it led them astray in the past. but that's also what social interaction is about. saying something stupid, feeling bad about it for a little while, and then moving on from it. i guess, if you get hung up on the feeling bad about it part, you end up nervous and you act against how you genuinely feel like acting. so, don't feel too bad, kid.

the truth is that i showed ya my soul and ya didn't want it

so i make a mockery of myself, let myself slip a little more each day.  i resist hard work, i resist effort. i enjoy inertia. 

mostly i try not to think about the things that drive me insane, with little success. i have so much work to do and i've barely done any of it. i wish i could find something joyful, something that motivated me to get out of bed and look myself in the eyes. the words, the pictures, the sounds, the touches, the tastes, the smells... well, they don't do it for me. 

while i write, i think of all the mean things people could say to me about what i write. the harsh thoughts bite at my nerves and i can't smack them away. i think i'm going to keep a written journal again. i've had so many fragments of them over the years, but i think it'll be nice for me to have something that will keep track of the empty days. maybe it'll make them a little less empty by having somewhere sane to talk to myself to.

still all choked up, not even close to all grown up