Well, you don’t know who I am, you don’t care to know who I am. I wish that I had told you who I am. It’s sorrow, seeing the dark side of humanity and seeing how quickly someone will blow you off when you’re an inch from slitting your wrists, because you’re “not the same person that you used to be.”

I grew up in a loving household, but I always thought it odd that I still felt the overwhelming need to be loved, more than most people. I never had a secure sense of it, when I should have. I think because even my parents never loved me for me entirely; even my parents ignored the parts of me that were suffering, because it was more than they could handle. And I want someone to love those parts. I want someone to want to hear me talk about them, when most people don’t. When I open my mouth to say things that make humanity uncomfortable and shifting in its seat, and desperately wants that I shut up. And desperately ignores me. And leaves me desperate with desire.

Desperate to be understood. And I have fucking resentment. As I should, I suppose. And I say I have no issues. I guess that I was wrong. I guess that no matter what smiles I give my therapist, I will never be free from kinks in my life, because the day that I was born, nature threw a loop to it.

Ribbons tangled. That’s what I am.