To you.

So, I'm gonna be a little bitter, obtuse, and rude.

Fuck you.

Fuck you for pretending that we're just friends.
Fuck you for brushing off my advances.
Fuck you for ever treating me like I was special, and especially for not doing it now.
Fuck you for letting me think anything could be.
Fuck you for your ability to place me behind everything in priority. Why do you get this luxury? Why is it that I must ignore my feelings and hesitations and do whatever it is you want when you want, and you can just come and go as you please? Oh that's right. You're a man. You call the shots, don't you? And I just ought to feel lucky that I get whatever attention you deem appropriate for me at the time. God forbid you do something for my pleasure without thinking of your own.
Fuck you for making me feel guilty about my hatred for the attention other women get, while still ogling and treating them special yourself. Oh, I can't say she's ugly, but you can say she's "pretty"/"easy on the eyes"/"got a great rack"? Where are those compliments to me? Either I'm just supposed to assume the things you think about me, or I'm just not worthy of your admiration.
Fuck you for pretending to listen.
Fuck you for your useless, selfish "advice".
Fuck you and your attitude.
Fuck you for making me ever feel unsafe and uncomfortable to the point where I wonder how and where I can just get away.
Fuck you for never loving me.
Fuck you for never caring about me.
I'm more than what I can offer you, goddamnit.
I deserve that attention, that admiration. I deserve to hear that I'm beautiful, what you admire about me. I deserve to assume that since you don't offer those thoughts, you're thinking other thoughts about me. I deserve better than sheer obligation to keep me sated and quiet. I deserve love.

I feel like if one person appreciated my looks the way I appreciate my significant others', I'd feel better about myself. What's the point in the what if, though? All anybody's ever going to tell me is that it's a notion I need to release myself of, as if my every day wasn't a struggle to do just that, to not feel on the outside, to feel like I'm living, not surviving.

Fuck you for pretending my problems and concerns are insignificant.

I guess I've come to a point where I want them to be straightforward and honest about it all...but I have a feeling that if they were, I wouldn't like it very much.
"How could anybody not love you, Erin?" Fuck you. There've been plenty who haven't, who don't, who won't, who'll pretend just to get something out of me. Fuck you.
Fuck you for pretending I'm normal, and thinking I'm not.

Fuck me.

Fuck me for never seeing the flashing neon signs.
Fuck me for thinking I don't need to change, and the world does.
Fuck me for putting it all on the line.
Fuck me for trusting.
Fuck me for my selfishness.
Fuck me for my lies.
Fuck me for my desperation.
Fuck me for not speaking my mind.
Fuck me for expecting anyone to read my mind.
Fuck me for waiting around.
Fuck me for letting this shit continue.

I'm going to go drown my troubles in pasta. Be honest, would you?

Love Letters

I just read a book, A Perfect Day for Love Letters, by George Asakura. (it's a comic book)
I don't know if I want volume 2.
The stories are romantically exciting...until the moment the two meet. When they meet, it's always yelling and crying and anger and confusion. I suppose it's a change from the "We were meant for each other" of other love stories, but it just doesn't seem that the two would gravitate toward one another if there was such animosity in their meeting in reality.
Do men even write letters like that? Do men think about women that way, and pine and long for? Or am I just not like other women?
I've always known I'm not. I'm not playing on the same field. They get to exist and be admired and longed for...by somebody in their life. I know I've never been a blip on the radar. Just a last resort. Maybe I was a pleasant surprise, but no one ever thought of me late at night, wishing that I would just look at them. I'm not like other girls.
A big part of my not wanting to read another volume is certainly, inarguably jealousy. I want somebody to want me more than I want them. I want to be a muse to someone. I want somebody to send me cryptic, beautiful, romantic love letters, where their true feelings and desires are revealed.
Any true feelings or desires about me have always been that I would probably be a surprisingly great lay, and they'd love to have the ability to leave it at that. That I was sweet, and would probably be fun to hang out with for a while. Never a muse. Never special enough to deserve better. Never worth an ounce more of effort or attention.

This self-pity isn't healthy, but if feels good to be honest about it, if only to myself. I'm bitter and jealous and upset, and it isn't changing.

It seems that other girls get attention while simply existing, by just being human. That's why I've always felt so distant from it all, why I didn't understand their complaints. I'd give anything just to feel human like that, just to exist and be appreciated for it. That's why I'm so hard on myself. I've got to try harder to be better than them, if not in looks, then in personality, and in desire and talent and stamina and sheer willingness and openmindedness. I beat myself up about making all the effort toward everything but the one thing that would change their minds.

Why can't you just fucking lose weight?
I'm stupid.
I still believe it'll solve all of my problems.

I wouldn't be the same person without all the weight. It makes me think differently, react differently...because I'm seen differently and treated differently. I am different. I'm not like other girls.
But all the same, I'd like to just let go and be nothing but worthless eye candy, since nothing I do is ever better than that. That's what they pine for, fight for, change themselves for...write love letters to. It's not me.

Where are my love letters?
Where is my humanity?