Look at you, trussed up like an animal, painted like a whore, soaked in filth. It’s so obvious, but you’re too fucking deluded to see it.
When a man has to go to this much effort to make you interesting, you have a problem. You’re just not enough for him. Can’t you sense it? You’re not pretty enough. You’re not clever enough. You’re not sweet enough. You’re not so many things that it’s hard to say what you actually are; your only definition is in your deficiency. You are a living, breathing manifestation of negative space.
I blame your upbringing. Too many people have told you to “just be yourself,” without recognizing how very low they were setting the bar. They’ve given you an awkward, delusional scrap of pride, one to which you cling like a tattered kite in a storm; you hold on like an idiot, dreaming that one day –if only you believe enough– it will finally lift your feet off the ground and carry you away.
Stupid girl. Let go of the string; your place will always be in the dirt.