My breath quickens and I’m not sure why. Tears spring in the crevices of my eyes and I think long and hard about what could have caused them. Every word out of their mouth is harmless, yet I feel like I could scream. I hate what makes me like this. I hate that people believe everything I say. I hate that I don’t say everything I believe. There is no sanity to this madness; no logic to this emotion. I want what I couldn’t possibly have and I don’t want to want what I shouldn’t.

I want to be enigmatic, but all I end up doing is confusing myself. I cannot seem to name, much less sort, the amalgamation that resides in my mind. I smother it in sitcoms I’ve seen before and I flutter from book to book all the while convincing myself that my next purchase will be the Goldilocks of stories. All this, in hopes of asphyxiating the rapid movement of my brain. I do not enjoy the constant berating of thoughts.

I want to love my little contradictory self, yet I cannot seem to stop doing the things that bewilder me post hoc.

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