It frightens me to realize how fragile we humans are. How insubstantial and weak our bodies are. How temporal our existences are. How fleeting our victories are. How easily replaceable we are. We're nothing. Almost nothing. Always running on empty. Always expecting, waiting for someone to pick us up. For something, anything to move us. Only to end up bitterly disappointed in a mess of memories and insecurities.

Hell, why did I even think that someone like me could ever come close to a happy ending?

I'm just another her. Just another pathetic excuse for you to stay around before something better comes along. But it doesn't matter, really. We are all temporary anyway.
Feels as if someone just punched me in the guts really hard and I'm just lying here, bleeding, hopefully to death.

Eventually it all comes back to this. Eventually you have nothing else.

I don't want anything. Because I'm nothing. A talentless waste of space. I don't need your comfort. Don't need your sympathy. Or your words.

I'm fine. Or I'd rather pretend that I am than fall apart.
I’m funny. I can make you laugh. I can talk. I can tell you stories. It's not enough though. Cliché. But it's not enough.

I’ll say something rash then; I hate the way we talk. Undressing the words, toeing the lines, unspeaking our invites. We subject ourselves to subtleties, glances and flutters of emotions. Bittersweet words toss and turn in my mouth in a deliberate turmoil. I always find it so hard to catch your feelings so I pretended I know nothing of it. Because I'm not her. Not a dream girl. Cliché. But it doesn’t make me anything like her. Not even close.

Don’t look at me with the corners of your mouth upturned. You’ve no idea how your smile works on me. Lighting up my whole heart, setting it on fire with wanton hopes and silly dreams, burning it to nothing but cinders. I’ll say something impulsive; you got the most amazing smile. Cliché. But it doesn’t make it less true. Doesn’t make my heart start beating slower.

Just sitting there, transfixed, enthralled. Sometimes, I wonder if only, if only, my feelings could translate into words. A little blind courage and hotheaded moments. Maybe things might turn out differently? But the truth is, I’m afraid of giving my best shot, and getting it thrown back at my face. I'm afraid of getting silence. I’m terrified of having hope. Because I don’t think I can take another disappointment. I'm petrified at the prospect of failing. Cliché. But it doesn’t make the fear less real.

If only you knew, the power you have over me, held so flippantly in your hands. You're the sound of a summer sunset. The tingle of the cobalt night. As I sit there, my heart continues to overflow. And I realize I don’t need an affirmation. Or an answer. I don’t want to choose the comfort of knowing over the possibility of true happiness. All I want is to be happy. Cliché.

Happiness is a cliché. Yet it doesn’t make me want it any lesser than anybody else.
The world's a stage and everyone's pretending. Nothing matters, as long as we keep this performance running and empty.

I could lie if you want me to. Could tell you I love you if you want me to. Could score As on my report cards if you wanted me to. Could save the world in a single bound if you wanted me to. Could be the best thing that ever happened to you in your entire fucking life. But truth is, I didn't want to. But not that it made any difference right?

If I was smarter I would leave. If I was smart, I'd do a lot of things. I'd get myself out of this stupid town and let you guys burn to death in your beds, under the blanket of everything you ever want and have.

If only, if only, you could see what you've done to me. Running on empty. Cutting me open, without enough anesthetic. My eyes are closed, but really all I'm doing is reliving your horrors over and over again. Just let me die, I think. Just let me die. Just let me fucking die. Give me a bottle of pills and a couple shots of vodka. Let me sleep forever, I screamed. Let me fucking sleep. But no one hears me, I'm nothing. I'm nothing, nothing but this fucked up kid. Your fucked up kid. The kid that your god accidentally bestowed upon you due to a negligence on your part.

Love? Don't talk to me about this silly empty word.