I Don’t Want It / A Journal of Sorts / 4.28.16

I don’t want it…

If it is my gift, truly, to feel everything so innately, so skeletal, then I don’t want it.

I am a thief of feeling, I take other’s emotions and stash them so close to my core it fucking hurts. 

And the worst part is, I’m not even good at empathy. I have tried so hard for so many years to be numb that I have injured that part of me.

Why the hell do I feel this way? My burden is so light, so small compared to everyone else! What the fuck is my problem!?

Confusion is such a fucking lie, it is a mask for judgment, a veil from shame. People who confuse are assholes. 

I am out of control. I don’t know how to control my gift or my emotions.

I am a swordsman, who tries so fucking hard to fence and ends up impaling himself in the end.

And if I am so Ill-fated on the journey of life to suffer with such depth in want of being loved then I am not convinced I want to be loved.

In my selfishness, I wish that I never had to give away pieces of myself like party favors to anyone who decides to March in and out of my life.

I suppose somewhere in my heart I want that fight, I want to fight for the idea that I was not only infatuated with love.

There is an inkling in the back of my head that I’m just meant to be lonely.

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