ⓒⓐⓡⓔ ⓣⓞ ⓔⓧⓟⓛⓐⓘⓝ?

maybe the problem is actually me.

i spent so much time blaming the faults of my life on others, being supported in this existence of blamelessness that I assumed no responsibility for myself.  Even now, I try to blame people for making me this way.

i am mean.  i am rude.  i am selfish.  i am not the girl you knew once before.  i am not special, unique, or interesting.  i am the fly that buzzes around the fruit of the world, pesty, persistent.

I sometimes like to think that maybe I am different.  maybe I am not useless or confused, or wandering in the abyss that is my mind.  the cavern with such depth yet no substance.  so much thought, yet nothing sticks.  i am a shell of emotions and misunderstandings, robotic reactions to everyday activities.

I will disappoint you. 

You, person with substance, brains, kindness.  You, out there, suffering because of my meanness of manner.

I will not be a butterfly, I will not weave silk or paint pictures of mountains. 

I write things like this, it’s what I do, and these things, they are not made of beauty.