Kat just felt frustration constantly — Especially now that she was sitting on her bed with a notebook open, pen in hand and no thoughts being written down. How am i supposed to do this? She thought, It's my job; To write music, to distance herself and just be inspired, but she's not inspired. She just can't write about something she's never felt, but tried. And sure sometimes they're not even bad—Radio worthy even. But this time she didn't know how to force herself.
Her room was silent, dark and practically void of all emotions. Lyrics; She just needed something, but all she was getting was nothing.
She doesn't feel love, not like a teenager should. She doesn't know how to write like she does, or ever has. She can't help that her love songs sound cheesy and horribly forced, It's because they are. She's tried the clichés, but they weren't good enough; And no one's ever won over her heart. It wasn't personal, she just worked better alone. And it's been proven time and time again, through music and life in general. She was better on her own.
She groaned, taking her pressure points between her fingers. Kat dropped the pencil, it rolling off the notebook and onto the waves of blankets. She stared down at it, bitting her cheek. "Why is it so fucking hard?"She mumbled before taking her anger out on the innocent paper by throwing it from the bed. It hit the floor making a slapping sound against the wood, which made kat jump like she didn't know it was coming. She groaned again, this time louder, getting up from her bed. She ran her hand through her hair kicking the notebook farther away as she walked to the bathroom.
She caught a glimpse of herself, sighing, but doing what she came in there to do shortly after.
She felt like she was in a dream, a not real state, a place were reality was blurred — It felt like she was getting drunk or high for the first time, and only throwing up the last two weeks worth of food would cure it. This was a fever-dream — A fever-nightmare even. She wanted to wake up, but she also didn't want that at all. She didn't want the reality to be the reality; She's numb. Numb to it all, literally most anything — And it's her pasts fault.
heal your inner child and forgive your abusers.
Therapist all told her the same shit, and it honestly just made it worse. Excuses and excuses. Shaded by the undertone of guilt. She's never felt good enough for anyone or anything, but all she's ever wanted was to be wanted, but everyone always had too high a price for her to pay; Her body. Her emotions. Her success. Her mentality. It was a never ending cycle with people — None of them just wanting her.
It sucked, but she's learned to suck it up and keep her head high, even if it was all just for show. But, when the curtains close, that's when no one likes who they see — The girl she actually is.
Her mother always told her men didn't want someone so emotional, so she learned to fake it. Her father told her that men wouldn't want someone so independent, so she became codependent and insecure. But her ex boyfriend told her that she's too clingy, and a debbie downer all the time, so she started down a bad path for him — He always said drugs were bad for her health, but offered another every time.
It took a long time for her to be able to pretend like these things didn't still effect her; That all the rejection and changing didn't tangle her wires — Making it impossible to be authentic when she really wanted to be. Maybe she was just scared; Maybe she just couldn't handle another time being rejected. Her heart was only holding on by glitter glue in the first place.
She stared up at the ceiling, her tears threatening to escape, but she was good at holding back, at staying silent. She sewed her emotions shut a long time ago, but it seemed the threads were wearing thin as they did eventually spill over. Silently streaming down her pink cheeks. She forced her eyes shut, wiping away the water streaks. She slapped her hand back down against her thigh it echoing the walls of the bathroom. Her cheek was between her teeth as she began to lift her balled fist and then slam in back down, again and again, until eventually she felt too weak to.
She steadied her anger, pulling her clothes back up and going to mirror. She gripped the countertops, white frosting her fingers. She stared at the person she hated the most — Which is something she usually avoids doing. She wanted to be someone spectacular, and she pretended she didn't loathe people for it — But she did. She really did. There's nothing more in the world that kat wanted to do than prove everyone wrong. That she could be loved for being herself. That she could be successful by herself. She wanted to prove that she was someone, and not a jigsaw puzzle everyone else put together.
She didn't want to be the second options anymore; The pretty face; That eye candy that looked good on your arm. She wanted to be 50/50 with someone and 100% with herself — But she never worked for it, so why would it come true? She accepted being the red-carpet for everyone else.
But it was getting harder and harder everyday for her to not rip the threads out.
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