The fates couldn’t be so cruel. And I say it over: the fates couldn’t be so cruel. I remember, sometimes, that I don believe in the fates or predestination or luck – good or bad – or anyone out there paying attention and looking after. It all seems rather silly that anyone or anything would care enough to play such petty games. I don’t believe. I am alone.
For, perhaps, the first time in my life I feel lonely. Really deep down bone lonely. It’s not a feeling I’m used to. I don’t, as a rule, need others. I don’t really need others now. I just need to be wanted and I’m not.
I’m the last one left and not going anywhere. Not wanted by any and sat like a lump in the corner. The lump grows larger, the shell is thicker, the persona falser by the day. Up, up, always up and smooth and measured and never put off. The mask is on and staying.
I’m the fat kid getting picked last. The odd one out. The one keeping score because, really, no-one wants me in the game. I think I’ve gone from treading water to drowning. The things I want so much are taken by others. I’ve started to stop hoping.
My body is messed up and not adjusting well. My head is messed up and not adjusting at all. I need about a year in a mental hospital being shocked in-between bouts of making macramé owls. I need drugs of hideous strength and incapacitation. I’m days from knocking off my father’s meds.
I was recognized only by my voice. It must have said fuck you because that’s as polite as I get to you. I will be the bitch for it because I’ll wear the tag. You’re just another reminder of my failure and I have a lifetime of those.