But what if I hate her? I’ve never even really known her.
I don’t hate her, at least, that’s how I think I feel about her.
What I hate is… I hate how I feel whenever I look at her. I hate how I feel when I see someone who knows her I hate how I feel when someone even mentions her even when they don’t say her name I know, why do I know who they’re talking about? It’s her —
“She’s so gorgeous. And tall and skinny and athletic and so sweet she’s so nice and has so many friends… hey, are you even listening to me?”
She’s gorgeous, and I look in the mirror some days and claw at my own face and arms until I see red. Not deep enough to leave visible scars — how pathetic, if you want to hurt yourself why not go all the way? Fucking coward.
She’s tall and skinny, and I like to grab at the skin around my stomach and arms and thighs and pull as hard as I can hoping they’ll eventually necrotise and fall off but I always stop before they turn purple, what a fucking weakling.
She’s so sweet and so nice and has so many friends, and I’m here writing this wallowing in my own fifty percent hatred, fifty percent self-loathing, a whole hundred percent of fucking inadequacy
I can’t help but laugh a bit at how petty this is but the anxiety — oh, the anxiety — it’s so real I find myself just rocking back and forth in my own bed thinking about it
I can’t talk to your friends. I can’t be seen with your friends. If I appear, and she’s there, they’ll ask you to break up with me. Obviously you’re settling for less — look at her, look at how he’s got her, how dare you even consider being with this goddamn slug. It’s an insult to you. I just turn up so they can’t say this to your face — they’ll spare me and just whisper about it behind my back. At least, then, I can pretend this doesn’t exist.
Hey, are you reading this? Do you think I’m crazy now? Sometimes I think I do have the potential to go completely batshit insane and fuck things up — I’m just waiting for the right moment, for the last straw, for the pin to drop, for the fucking pot to boil over and I’ll be there, the stew of my self-hatred and shitty personality overflowing onto your pristine ceramic stovetop bubbling off the ledge like viscous sewage and burning your toes
jesus christ i am so pathetic