"Listen, my life is nothing worth talking about."

It's a typically made remark, because I was so used to it. Yet there’s a fragment of my mind that wants to beg people to stay, to listen — because I miss the feeling of being valued. I'm a reclusive sociopath who basks in the thought of being alone, but I feel lonely too. The type of loneliness that eats away at my insides, devouring me whole.

"Your life does mean something.”

That's what I *want someone to say.
No, words are easy to say.

To reiterate, that's what I want someone to genuinely feel.
Hah, as if.

"Don’t lie to me," I would scoff bitterly, "you don’t give a **** and I know that. I can see right through you.”

This is partly true though, because not only have I grown insightful over the years, but I have experienced this one too many times. I might come off happy, but in reality I'm just insecure. I'm afraid, and I often find myself feeling depressed. Not that I would ever admit to such a thing, because I have always perceived this aspect of myself as weakness.

So I push some more buttons.
Who gives a ****, right?

"I don’t need your ******* pity, or your petty concerns. In a few years, I’ll probably be dead, and no one will care. People might pity me. They might worship me now, claiming me to be some type of ******* genius. They’ll feed me compliments. Yet what do I do with all of that? Can I ******* sell it? Buy a ******* mansion with it? Or, oh, I don’t know — a ******* stable family? Because anyone can buy someone with money, man. It’s so ******* easy, because people are superficial beings with nothing but greed corrupting the depths of their ******* souls.”

I know what it’s like to be lonely.
But to see it break me apart like this.
For some strange reason, I find it pathetic.

Comfort.
It's something I haven't gotten used to.
So I stare at my reflection instead.
In the mirror I oh-so-hate.

"I’m so sorry."
But am I really sorry to myself?
**Or is this just another excuse?