thoughts

70

i told myself i wouldn't write about you again.. but here i am. i also told myself i wouldn't think about you anymore, but you still pop into my mind constantly. i tell my friends that i only think about you when someone else brings you up or when i see you but, it's all a lie. i think about you almost a million times a day it seems. everything reminds me of you, even my own appearance. i've hit the spot of insecurity. i hate myself because i feel like if i was still pretty you'd still love me ; but that's not true at all. i try to love myself for the way that i am, but it's so difficult to. my chest is either not flat enough or too flat. some days i want my ass to stick out and some days i want to be as slim as a punk rock band singer. i cant explain it. i want to feel curvy and sexy and cute and beautiful. but i also want to feel skinny and handsome and mysterious. my brain is constantly mush. and maybe i'm blaming this on you to make me feel better about myself. idk. maybe i just can't handle change. i wonder if you hate my short hair or the fact that i wear a binder. i wonder if you hate the way i sag my pants to hide my feminine frame for the approval of women. i wonder if you hate how i call myself a man or that my name changed. i wonder if you hate me. i constantly wonder if you hate me. i didn't give you a reason to. one half of me wants you to be sobbing over the loss of me, and the other half wants you to hate my guts for all of eternity. god you make me so fucking confused with your mouth shut. you don't even have to look at me and i try to read your mind like a book. i'm constantly judging you. i cringe at your laugh, it sounds so fake now. your smile is so fake now. you're so different. you're so fake now. you changed so much, but not in the good way. you're like a robot now. it's probably from all the pills you pop since you decided to turn into a druggie after i left you. damn, i really did hurt you. i don't feel any remorse about your addiction. you knew my traumatic past with hard drugs, and you didn't give two fucks. you didn't even try to hide it from me. you're a sick bastard. yeah ; fuck you.