under the pretense that there is nothing wrong
Trust me when I say that there is nothing more than I want than to be happy.
Yet sometimes it feels like something, someone out there is against the notion of letting me achieve happiness. I hold you when you're down and patch you up, dry your tears, tell you everything is fine -- and I've done this to many people, not just one -- but everyone, everyone tells me the same things when I'm the one on my knees and crying:
"Why are you crying over that?" "Stop crying."
I hate it.
Sometimes I feel like everyone out there are just parasites who depend on me for their own benefit and leave me once they're done, once I'm useless, insignificant to their now sated stomach. I don't want to sound like a whiny, pathetic teenager who clamours for attention from the rest and demand that they notice that hey, I'm suffering, stop whatever you're doing and help me and buy me a whole year's worth of tissues to show me you care. I just want people to stop thinking I'm their human substitute for a pillow or the plush toy that you only reach out for when you're sad, and once you fill me with your snot and tears and mucus and sadness you throw me aside into the dusty corner again.
When I reach out, where is that hand that should be clasped around mine?
And so it all comes to one conclusion that despite how I appreciate the company of those whom I love, I am still, in the end, completely alone.
Yet sometimes it feels like something, someone out there is against the notion of letting me achieve happiness. I hold you when you're down and patch you up, dry your tears, tell you everything is fine -- and I've done this to many people, not just one -- but everyone, everyone tells me the same things when I'm the one on my knees and crying:
"Why are you crying over that?" "Stop crying."
I hate it.
Sometimes I feel like everyone out there are just parasites who depend on me for their own benefit and leave me once they're done, once I'm useless, insignificant to their now sated stomach. I don't want to sound like a whiny, pathetic teenager who clamours for attention from the rest and demand that they notice that hey, I'm suffering, stop whatever you're doing and help me and buy me a whole year's worth of tissues to show me you care. I just want people to stop thinking I'm their human substitute for a pillow or the plush toy that you only reach out for when you're sad, and once you fill me with your snot and tears and mucus and sadness you throw me aside into the dusty corner again.
When I reach out, where is that hand that should be clasped around mine?
And so it all comes to one conclusion that despite how I appreciate the company of those whom I love, I am still, in the end, completely alone.