Saturday, 31 December 2011
039; I need to be cared for, like a potted plant.
“I know exactly how that is. To love somebody who doesn’t deserve it. Because they are all you have. Because any attention is better than no attention. For exactly the same reason, it is sometimes satisfying to cut yourself and bleed. On those gray days where eight in the morning looks no different from noon and nothing has happened and nothing is going to happen and you are washing a glass in the sink and it breaks accidentally and punctures your skin. And then there is this shocking red, the brightest thing in the day, so vibrant it buzzes, this blood of yours. That is okay sometimes because at least you know you’re alive.”
—Augusten Burroughs, Running With Scissors
This is what you reduce me to; a lovesick creature, always craving your attention. I would do anything to be the centre of your world, yet you can never convince me that I am. Always two sides to everything, never enough. To see myself through your eyes; you tell me I'm beautiful, that you love me, despite all my flaws, despite my manic freak-outs and self-destructive behaviour. Despite that I am who I am. I ask you, time and time again: why? Why me? What could you possibly see in me? Why do you love me? You answer, "I always have and I always will" and how can you know that? All I can think is whywhywhy.
All I know is that there's an end.