Untouchable

Be careful.

I want to lash out with everything that I have.

I'm too tired, though. Too bent by conscience, too exhausted from the constant carrying of emotions that were probably never meant for me.

Oh, dammit.

I'm sick of censoring myself. I'm tired of holding back when (clearly) I should be exploding, should be demanding thoughts, should be asking sharp questions designed to cut.

Be careful.

Work has sapped me of everything. Wit, energy, patience, social tolerance. If my aversion to people was surprising before...it's absolutely shocking now. I don't want to see anyone I haven't bargained for, and I don't want to play the amiable (malleable) girl everyone can get along with. You don't like it? Regrettably, then, I ask that you fuck off.

"Now it seems you're leaving,
But we've only just begun...
And you've still got nowhere else to go,
So I wait for you to
Take me all the way...
Take me all the way."

I wish I could get away from all of this. I can't wait for school to start again. I can't wait to leave, to be independent and a shadow and a people-observer again. Coming back home to live for the summer sounded relaxing at first -- it sounded good when I was buried under fifteen tons of notes and a week's worth of final exams. But now, with the amount of drama and ache that I've immersed myself in...with the staggering number of things that have changed, with the minute tweaks and patches I've applied to myself and my personality...I'm not sure if coming home was a good idea at all.

There have been a thousand promised made to me. They've been broken.
There have been a thousand affections poured upon me. I'm parched now without them.
There have been a thousand thoughts wheeling through me. They've disintegrated.

Want to know a secret? Be careful. I've a thousand secrets to tell. Let me show you:

I am not expendable.
I am not subject to your whims.
I am not always cool, collected, and witty.
I am not anti-social...I'm anti-people.
I like the tender undersides of individuals.
Facades make me sick.
I've lied to you. I've lied through my teeth.
I like to worm my way into your head. When I'm finished, I'll worm my way out.
I am desperate, powerless, weak, and ravenous. Over you.
I am frail. Handle me delicately.
I like decadence, degradation, shooting pain, and dull aches.
If I could self-medicate against consciousness, I would.

Oh, and you thought you knew me...