Become

Like re-reading a Stephen King novel, I skim every line of text to make sure I don’t miss the goriest bits — in this case the words that sicken me the most. Gross displays of affection that cause my stomach to clench queasily and numb my extremities. When did I ever become so repulsed by what others good feelings? Jealousy or discontent or just my insecurity rippling like the wobbling film over a cup just about to overflow? I was never the romantic type, neither was I completely pragmatic. I wonder why I feel so goddamn fucked up. 20 years old but I still don’t know anything about myself except hatred and self-loathing, with a heaping spoonful of cowardice and avoidance to boot. Some days I rack my brains to figure out if there even is anything positive about me at all that people like — I’m nice, someone (everyone) said, the cop-out answer for “actually, I don’t even know you”. It’s so awful that the word “nice” reads as an insult to me now, a synonym for “bland” or “boring”. I want to be passionate, daring, witty, original, all of these things that you cannot be convincing at if you aren’t naturally so — and I am not.

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