It happened everyday for months that I had to wake up and fight the demons I grew up with, like it’s a prosaic thing. I was young and oblivious, they didn’t matter. I aged, they did too and have gotten worse. Life created them. Distress did. I would say grief but I despise being so emotional in a blog. Ha, how ironic is that.
I am vulnerable yet stoical. I’m used to letting people have the trust even I couldn’t even give myself. Then they toss it away, like leaving kites tangled up on a high tree, completely forgotten. I proved myself that in the end, I have a reputation of being lone wolf.
People see me as a selfish nonbeing. I don’t seem to care. I built walls behind fences to protect me. Because everyone loves shooting me. I would’ve wanted them to feel like tiny pinpricks but they’re not. They felt the same as gunshots. So I have a reason to be anti-social, detached from anyone. I feel okay with it.
If only existing was any better, but it wasn’t and I’d love to disappear.