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About Literature / Hobbyist tiffFemale/Unknown Recent Activity
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From the age of ten I've felt as though I'm constantly being compared to prettier friends, measured up against them and repeatedly being dismissed as not good enough, average, or the ugly one.  It's not paranoia, it's true.  
When I was ten I was this chubby kid with a massive forehead who developed too fast and had zits before anybody else.  
When I was twelve, I didn't realise tying your hair up every day made you look hideous, so I did it.  Boys would ask me out, and I'm pretty certain it was just for a laugh, as in let's ask out that ugly girl so that when she says yes we can laugh at her.  I said no, sometimes with a snigger or a laugh, because it was already embarrassing enough to be ugly, I wasn't going to be naive too. 
When I was thirteen I dyed my hair and bought new clothes and started wearing make up and began to look ok-ish, and in bursts would feel slightly less ugly.  
When I was fourteen I wore more make up and attempted to diet and became skinnier and did start going out with boys who for some miracle reason weren't taking the piss when they asked me out. 
Between the ages of fourteen and sixteen I tried every hair colour, style, amount of make up, brand of make up, the skimpiest and the most conservative clothes, and it didn't matter how many people who paid me attention or who I fucked in bathrooms at parties, I always knew it was never because I was anything special to look at.  When I started dating girls, I would secretly compare myself to them in every aspect of being and strive to be the skinniest because if life hadn't blessed me with nice facial features or a perfect curvy body, at least I could have one thing that people seemed to want.  I never felt beautiful with visible ribs, still felt the same crushing inadequacy. It never goes away.
At seventeen, I gained some weight and had a brief phase of going to the gym and eating a lot in an attempt to be a different kind of beautiful.  No luck.
When I turned eighteen and started going out to clubs, I made a group of friends who I see a couple of times a week at my favourite club.  Once I brought another friend along and ALL NIGHT people were coming up to me and pointing out how gorgeous my friend is.  I left the club crying an hour and a half early.  It will never end.  
I wish I didn't care.  I really do.  I could hone another skill - I could be a creative genius, I could strive to be the funny one in the group, or I could work hard and be really intelligent.  But I don't WANT to be any of those things.  I want to be beautiful so that instead of all the meaningless fucks and shallow relationships and being there to fill other people's lonelinesses, someone wonderful would fall in love with me and we would be happy. 

It's all so irrational and awful, but it feels real all the same.  I KNOW I'm not completely hideous, and yeah maybe I should be greatful that I'm skinny, and that I have some good personality traits.  But I'm so SICK of being compared to others, or being surrounded by beautiful girls and overlooked because my hair isn't good enough and my skin isn't good enough and my stupid useless face isn't good enough. 

I am too OLD for all this teenage bullshit.  I thought by now I would have grown up and seen the light, or whatever.  That maybe I'd be comfortable being ok/average/kinda pretty in some lights, but I'm still not.  And it kills me that it's so beyond my control - to have been born so fucking average.  I'm of average intelligence, I'd say, yet as a kid I was super smart, and if I actually worked some, I could be a bit smarter.  But this fucking appearance thing - it's impossible.  You're born the way you are and you either have to learn to tolerate your own face or be miserable forever and aksndlkdbvoirwbvgwlvs I'm only writing this because I don't want to say all of this to anybody I know, my whole image is based on PRETENDING to be ok with how I look but sometimes I CAAAAANATNTAWCDNALCNBLVS
It is fine when you are the one to leave. You have your indignation for company, and the sense of being right and misunderstood.  But when you are left, when you are abandoned at one am in a busy city full of people who you do not know, you have no shield, no comfort.  
The lie peels back like a bandage, exposing the sickly truth beneath: you are not loved.  Yes there are those people, the ones you have taken home and promised the world, but they do not know the hurricane that spins and kills beneath the surface of your skin.  You are nothing.  She has lied to you.  She has used you in the same way that you used all of the others.  You were a distraction, a bright colour to paint across the monotony of her own loneliness, an excessive loneliness that mirrors your own.
A weary beggar asks you to spare a little change - does he not see that you have none?  No change, not for three long years.  It is always the same old story. She calls, she says, I need you.  Baby, be here now.  And like a fool you go.  Because you mistake the way her lips drawl out the single syllable "you."  You think that finally she wants the hands that would hold hers forever, that finally she has seen the fissures cut into your granite heart that has chipped and crumbled for three long years.  You forgive her again, not realising that "you" are a mere time filler, a movable shape that she can twist to fit that night's particular absence.
The lonely heart has infinite capacity for forgiveness.  She wants the impossible - a kind of love that only you can give, but she does not want it from you.  We all think we are different.  She clings to you only when nobody else is home. And still you would give her anything she asked for.
You would cut the stars from the sky and paint them melancholy blue to match the ocean inside of her chest.  You would drown yourself, or set your bones alight to prove to her that you are not bound by the limitations of human fear.  This blade knows not the honour with which is carves your pale skin into something more terrible than heaven.  This endless night knows not the possibility that it offers you and the million opportunities that you refuse.
The faces are a swarm of locusts.  And from the foggy sea you could pluck any one of them: another conquest.  But not tonight.
Tonight you are left.  Not right, not leaving. Left. The pavement welcomes the click of lonely heels, your sad regression into the darkness you came from. It is not even raining anymore yet you ache with colourless sadness.
All the strangers you could have taken home become the mocking bearers of this city's rancid truth: you are not loved.  Not by the faces, the hands or the cries, not by the ecstasy or the cookers of awkward breakfasts, and certainly not by her.
You are not needed.  You are excess, reserve, a wasting entity.

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herbodyismycoffin Featured By Owner Jul 13, 2014   Writer
thank you for the watch :heart:
CallMeHe Featured By Owner Jul 6, 2014  Hobbyist
Thank you for the watch ^.^
carpefuckingdiem Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
much welcome :heart:
DylanSeto Featured By Owner Jul 6, 2014  Student Artist

Just wanted to thank you for the fave!

Also, since I'm currently focusing on music, I was wondering if you'd be interested in supporting me in that endeavor of mine?

If you are, I can link you to where you can find that stuff!
carpefuckingdiem Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
sure thing, always happy to support fellow artists in any way i can! just let me know how i can help :heart:
DylanSeto Featured By Owner Jul 8, 2014  Student Artist


Let me know what you think :)
SilverInkblot Featured By Owner Jul 6, 2014  Hobbyist Writer
Thank you for the fave and devWatch :D
littleblueraccoon Featured By Owner Jul 5, 2014  Student Writer
Thank you for the watch! :hug:
introverted-ghost Featured By Owner Jul 4, 2014   Writer
Thank you for the watch, it's much appreciated. :heart:
arabesque-o Featured By Owner Feb 6, 2013  Student Photographer
i love the way you write,
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