the FOURTEENTH of SEPTEMBER, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY ONE.

there's a swelling urge for self-destruction in me, more present than ever. i find myself hung onto all the little
things i should be over by now; routine rejection, ostracisation. the feeling that i don't really belong anywhere,
no matter where i go, who i hang out with, i'm always the odd one out. i never really mesh in, or even if i do
there will always be someone there that wants me gone. the token friend, the one you take under your wing. i don't
know if that's really the case but i find myself mulling over it in my head over and over and that's the only conclusion
i can come to - to myself i am utterly unloveable. a charity case at best. i can look at myself in the mirror for ages,
but my entire being seems distorted in my eyes, like i'm not meant to be here, physically. there's someone i'd like to
be with, but i have to settle for glances and second best and drugged-up mistakes. i'll always be second to everything.
an afterthought. i want to snake my wallflower vines around everything and engulf it all. i'm so lonely.