I’ve wasted too much energy on people who fall in love with fucking me.
My heart has only ever locked eyes with an equal once,
and that was wasted,
because youth is wasted on the young,
and so is true love.
I don’t want to be fucked.
I don’t care if magazines and viral tweets tell me it feels good,
because I lay there,
their sparkle, gone,
like a patient in surgery who has just woken from the sweet sleep of anaesthesia,
and suddenly has to come to terms with the fact that it all feels wrong.
I don’t want it to feel wrong,
but it always does.
Where the fuck are my fireworks?
When the fuck do planets collide?
How the fuck are our souls meant to connect when I can’t even look at you without getting irrationally angry about the fact that you didn’t ask how my day was, or notice that I wore the dress you like?
It never feels right.
because none of them have ever loved me (except one, maybe two, but she’s dead and I can’t ask, and now I’m sad about what came to pass so, hey, why don’t I just fuck my emotions away or… whatever).
I have meant nothing to them,
and so, of course, they meant everything to me,
because I don’t love myself,
and it’s all a fucking mess,
and I have wasted so much energy,
and oh, so many moments of bedroom theatre, that would have won me an Olivier,
on people who fall in love with fucking me,
but are never capable of more.