It was never that I was alone, that I lacked people around me, and that I was in need of comfort but rather that I required more than I could ever give. I am selfish. I crave too much from many all at the same time and I demand without words that they fulfill it. Perhaps I could trace the root of my need to a past where I did nothing but give until there was nothing left but an empty white shell. However, if I trace it back to its origin then I’ll encounter all of the barricades of my past I had to leap over knowing it was best to smash them to pieces.

I am a coward, you see. I am a coward that hides under the illusion of bravery and I suppose that is the worst kind of lie since you’re deceiving no one but yourself. I fear intimacy; I fear it in a way that is frightening. Embraces burn my skin from their heat and kind words scar my ears and mind. They create doubts that I procrastinate over to a point of insanity. I know it’s for the reason that I lack the love a human must feel for themselves; it’s a mystery I let people fiddle with. My mind would never let me believe another could feel anything but contempt or at the very least, a certain degree of distaste for I am deficient in so much of what I should have.

Sometimes I wonder if this emptiness has a bound or if it’ll ever grow one. Its feels so intricate like the most complicated mathematics problem. I hate it. I hate it’s this complicated. I hate how alone it makes me feel and how no matter the number of people I surround myself with and no matter how many times I hear that I’m loved, it never feels quite real. I try my hardest to avoid lying to people. One cannot live a life of lies and then keep projecting it on to the world. It would be the equivalent of gradually decaying from the inside out. Perhaps that is why I chose to die small death everyday always burdened by an unsavory truth.