THOSE WHO SUFFER LOVE
Sometimes, I'd really like to believe that I was charming.
If only I didn't know any better than to see the abrasive context of my behaviour.
I'd also like to believe I was, in some shape, jaded, though I can't really say that I fit that I fit any set circumstance.
Take it like this-
Teenaged and hairdyed, the last to be chosen in a group bound for happy catholic marriage- the devirginized out of boredom and rage- in a small town in the biggest of cities, a pretty house rusted by the ocean breezes.
Both her parents are still alive and bound and have occupations to support both education and passive vocation. She's got no bodily harm, free from affliction as she is addiction, and everything is in her mind.
Her friends are pure and naive and all of that abuse and alcoholism and sexual activity, acted not by her but her associates, has drifted into its own oblivion, leaving her, more or less, in safety.
She has, in this respect, no reason to complain and no reason to doubt the prospect of a generally safe future, yet the hint of friendship as an infection and hate as inevitable hang, cutthroat, above her head.
I wish I could say that I saw things the way I should and I wish I could say that the paranoia was in hormones and not in those subtle daydreams.
I want someone who listens and I need someone who understands.