She was finicky. She never wanted to voice her true opinions straight off the bat, you'd have to coax her or directly ask her for an answer. She studied the stars and collected crystals, when she didn't know what to talk about she'd talk about the rocks. She picked at her scalp when she was nervous, she'd pick and pick until her head bled. To be honest, she didn't want to admit that she hated herself so much. Every living moment she'd think about how she must be disgusting. She looked at herself and deemed herself unlovable, unwanted, because well look at her track record. She loved fashion and jewelry. Jewelry covered in diamonds, that old antique jewelry that looks like it belonged to your grandmother, thick and heavy jewelry all around her neck and arms. She hyperfixated on the idea of having a love, convincing herself that if someone else could genuinely love her then maybe she'd learn to love herself. She only watched the romantic dramas, she wrote herself a romance novel, she'd do day to day things and wonder how it'd be if there was a love by her side. But she's never had a love, she laughed about it and blamed everyone else but she started to convince herself that it was all her fault. She's too cruel, she's too judgemental. Then she started to realize the romanticism of it all. She started to grow disgusted by the idea, she started to stress herself out. Her room is pink, she likes spanish love songs and sunflowers, she wore glitter on her face and liked to bake. She cares so so much. But sometimes caring doesn't do anything but stress you out. So why should she care?
YOU ARE READING
ballads of heartbreak
Poetry"I'm sorry that I'm like this, I'm trying my best" -essentially a diary, slight tw for being self destructive & harmful, some really good stuff crammed in with a bunch of nonsensical three am cry sessions
