voice...

No way to show it makes sense. It doesn't. When they start to not give a fuck, it unravels. Every last strand.

Should have picked up the challenge. Maybe then you would have been more the sum of your words. As it is, you can't count too well. To be limited to such algebraic equations as your definition, you're screwed beyond reason. Potatoes have a higher chance of seeing with their eyes than you do.

Shallow obsessions. You are hardly as popular as you THOUGHT you were. And then again, you fall back into the pattern. Revelations are of no use to someone who forgets them even before they're over. Pathetic.

You think you can write? You can't. Maybe that's why you keep trying. People want what they cannot have. And you can't have anything. So you want everything.

In a way, she was the only one who could love you. Only one who would. And you knew that. Maybe that's why you pushed her away. It was fun for awhile, but you knew that you weren't getting her anywhere. And you've become so much more fucked than you currently are.

Sometimes, you talk too freely. They like it, and that's why you do it. Attention seeking bastard you are. And they soak it all in, revelling in your pathetic inaptitude. You know that too, but the hopelessness wants it more than the pride despises it.

Eat your words. Every last one. They taste bad, like day old puke, or like her cooking, but that's not the point. You eat what you deserve, what you can afford. And as is, you're quite pathetic. But isn't everyone.

Sometimes you'd rather you were entirely gay. Or straight. Straddling the lines rather than a person is a lot more fucked up than it sounds. You see a cute guy, you go wow. You see a hot chick, you go wow. You can't really make up your mind, can you?

It seems that you live a rather perfect life. Like, who wouldn't want your spectacular grades and everything? You don't have to work for what you have. And truth be told, you aren't as fugly as you think you are. In an earthy sort of way, you're quite charming actually. Your personality, at least the one you project, seems to be amusing enough. At least that gives you a more or less constant crowd.

Again, you know that they're mocking you. People are sadistic. She'd agree, you suppose. Two outcasts, you are. And in the end, it's really not that lonely. Everyone does not fit in, or rather, no one does.

You know, you probably are only looking for physical intimacy because you want to feel wanted. Which you really aren't you know. And no amount of humping, grunting, screwing, shagging, fucking, is going to change that. If anything, that tiny piece of flesh serves as probably the only pleasure source that you ever get.

Your family is a weird one. They don't really give a fuck about you, and then again they care so much it smothers. You could die from the lack of attention, and you could drown in it. The worst part is they got it in the wrong order.

She would likely miss you. She's probably suffered a lot on your account. And now she's suffering more. You should have known better than to get involved with emotional females. Few things good come out of such things. But stupidity and assheadedness are sort of your trademarks.

In a way, you were better at 15 than you are now at 18. Even though you were uglier, stupider, more oblivious. Perhaps, the few improvements you had only served to downgrade further the shit that you were. Sordidly, you have no choice but to continue this lie.

Maybe. And maybe not.

I look away from the mirror. The dark voice stops. I turn to gaze out the 34th story window of my apartment. The wind is so bracing. And so I do the same for myself.

With a sigh, I jump.