By January, I've Come to Hate You
January has come, and my emotions worn weary. My sense of humor has dulled, and although I am still fully capable of entertaining those around me with my offbeat remarks, I hardly feel a thing. Neither guy is willing to release his hold on me, and I feel myself being suffocated. Now, there is a countdown. I must find love by July, or perhapse end up being defiled. Conflict has arisen with a certain girl, who I feel myself falling away from. She is no longer real anymore. He has clouded her vision. I loathe him. I itch to wrap my hands around his scrawny gullet and constrict them until he is deprived of oxygen. But I can't. Not for her. And she's begun to loathe me for it. But I see him for what he is. And what he's doing to her. And she knows what he's done, but he twists things. I'm not the only one with a hold put on me. I've begun experimenting. How shallow men are these days. All it takes is a few subtle changes to my appearance, and more have begun noticing me. A third party has entered the dispute. One who has loved me for nearly four years now. But do you really love me? The real me? You don't know just who I am. You would undoubtedly turn away from the sick, twisted creature that I've become, if only eyes could look upon the soul. Why love me? Even after all the misery I've already put you through? I see no redeemable traits in myself, and yet something exists that draws people in. And eventually burns them. I still see nothing that would endear me, yet something must exist.