who are people to force me to believe i’m no good. what right do people have to be so unfair as to make me live my life with the belief that i’m imperfect, to lay my flaws out in front of me. to tell me who i am and how i act. who are people to create a world in which i cannot win, in which i’m always wrong but they’re never right either. who are people to force me to keep things in and weaken me, when i used to be so much stronger, so in control. really, there’s no reason, this is wrong, and now nobody dislikes me as much as i do, because i don’t care about me anymore.

sometimes we love people too much; so much so that we have to become numb to that love. almost entirely because if we actually chose to feel just how much we loved them, it would kill us. that doesn’t make you a bad person, a cold person, it’s just that you care more than you have ever before, it just means your heart’s too big.

oh sorry, i cannot hear you over the sound of my material items.

the story of the boy who sticks around. the one watching, waiting, hoping for the glamorous party to begin. the story of the pushover, the lover. the one that none can hate half so well as he hates himself, his inevitable sadness. the story of the party that leaves him feeling much emptier than before, the story of the boy who sticks around.