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Sorry for Myself

The time has come again where the thoughts in my mind are rushing and bumping into each other within the walls of my mind. Beauty, fashion, love. How did I become this teenage girl? Recently, I began to find myself with less and less words, and I’m entirely aware of how awkward this seems to make other people feel. I always laugh silently and continue to sit there, mute, feeling perfectly comfortable for the time being. My too-loose jeans hang on my legs, and I cross my arms in a thick sweater. I finally gathered enough myself to try and link these thoughts to write something that actually matters. Something that actually matters to me, at least.

Try and imagine with (almost) all of your 5 senses, a sheet of sandpaper being rubbed up against another sheet of sandpaper. Sometimes I like to use that as a metaphor for certain audiences to picture the way it feels to be me. That’s selfish, I don’t know the pain of losing a parent, or whatever hurts more than the petty stuff that I seem to think is a huge deal. Maybe I have gone through enough in my life, but after all, I am just a teenage girl. A teenage girl whose only way to cope with anything is to replay them in her mind and sometimes write them down.

Sometimes, more often with every day, I lie about every day things. Probably like a lot of people, I always answer the “how are you feeling?” Spiel with “Fine.” Or something like that; always an answer like that. I always ask myself: “why won’t anyone listen?” I finally understand it’s because I’m not saying anything that’s worth listening to, or I’m not speaking loud enough. I don’t quite understand the flow of silent yelps of help, but I don’t understand a lot of things.

Sometimes, I stand by the mirror lifting my shirt up halfway to see if I’m actually losing weight. “No,” or “not today,” sometimes, “maybe tomorrow.” And so the cycle continues with the attempt of being content with the pain that’s consuming me by society’s distorted view of beauty. I try so hard to impress the certain someone who, ultimately, is too good for me. I’ll leave with my head hanging low, and the with the side effects of my insomnia hanging on my feet like the ball and chain you’d see in the Pop-eye cartoons.

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