I am what I am, and I am nothing.

This entry stands in stark antithesis to my previous one. Nevertheless, stumbling upon this site—and the act of writing itself—has offered a modest sense of solace, a fragile kind of grace.

Tonight, I write under the soft veil of my favorite comfort album, as ambivalence coils and festers within the recesses of my soul and consciousness. It is like a quiet ache inside of me. It blooms in my chest, winding through my bones.I am left to confront a series of unsettling questions: Am I at fault? Do I deliberately provoke those I love, Do I prod at the hearts I cherish, beckoning them to witness the monstrous, weather-worn parts of me I’ve buried so deep? Is love, for me, only real when it is raw—when it reveals the repugnant parts the bloom? Is this the truest form of affection?

You say I push. That I provoke. That your cruelty is born in my chaos—as though I possess the power to transform you into someone cruel. Is it true? Am I just weaving sense from nothingness? You call me childish. You spit venom laced with names, dismissals, doors slammed and reopened at whim. And I think—if our positions were reversed, if even once I branded you with those same words, you’d vanish like mist, no chances, no return.

You do not hunger for me the way I hunger for you. How it must feel to be wanted, longed for so completely. To be the center of someone’s orbit, to know they would scour the earth just to brush the edge of your presence. I feel small in that shadow. Pathetic. Clinging. So easily discarded. I have always been, even as a child, the one deemed *too much.* *Too hard.* *Too wild to love with ease.*