When Compliments Stopped Working

It's emotion without a plot right now. Any advice?

I reached down. My fingers clawed farther away from my chest and to ten toes that capped my taut body. The pain of my stretch sharpened and I let my body lax. I look up. My room is dark. I'd hoped that in the darkness I wouldn't register the stacks of unopened boxes that create the landscape of my room. They were however noted and found daunting.
I grabbed a blanket from amidst the clothes and pillows that encased what one wouldn't expect to be a mattress. After swaddling myself in the blanket and retrieving my phone I escaped the room. I am greeted by more boxes. So I turn tail and slip into the only boxless and still lit room in my house. A closet oddly enough. This closet has become somewhat of a have. With everything already organized; two sets of dress clothes hang in the corner. It left plenty of space for me, my box, and blanket.
I turn on my phone. 2 new notifications. Both Instagram. My mom tagged me in a photo of boxes. Great now when a stranger stalked me they would know that underneath the makeup I was a cardboard box filled with mostly unused kitchen supplies. My secret has been revealed. The other was a notification was that someone had liked my photo of a tree. I'm so very impressive.
I switch to messenger and type, "Hey, Martin how's life? I don't like boxes".
The message took its time to deliver and I paused before before typing a new message to Jane.
"Hey. Is it weird that even though I have a distaste to boxes and clutter I struggle to be comfortable in open areas?"
I clicked back to Kayli Martin. No sign of acknowledgement. I scroll up and stare at my verbose boxes compared to her concise ones. Again not waiting I tapped entrance to my conversation with Rae. One "hi" in the past month. I don't bother. I instead click to Tulip before remembering that I'd already tried to text her earlier that day.
I flip to YouTube and find a suitable playlist. I wake to a dark closet the light source being a window. The sun had set. Having to responses I crawl out of the closet and plug my phone in. I land on my bed hopefully ignorant.
When I wake the next morning there is nothing. Great so much for rising with a smile as bright as the sun. My room is a mess of boxes and their useless contents. I'm tempted to just throw away the entire room's worth of clutter I've amassed in my 16 years of existence. I started to slink back to sleep but my phone buzzes.
"Time for French Practice"
One split second was enough to raise and crush my hopes.It's 10:10 am already; nearly an entire morning--day wasted in slumber. I roll over once, twice, three times before falling at an incredibly slow rate off of my foot tall mattress.
I stumbled sluggishly off my floor and to the bathroom. I head straight for the toilet. That's fiction's greatest flaw: no one poops unless it's part of a comedy bit. Authors flatter the reality because no one wants to dream up and live in a world of such nasty things like bodily waste¿ It's also a flaw found in history classes. Waste disposal. It's not a very popular topic but one tidbit I know is that the ladies of Victorian Era had chamber maids and pots. Overall it is uncomfortable for discussion in any circumstance. I wonder if in a couple hundred years the concept of white ceramic that pump excreted waste to some sewer system will be a foreign idea.
I should probably stop conversation of poo. It can be a turn off. A change, not a vast one, is that I striped and hopped into a hot stream of water called a shower. My hair is a greasy mess, I need a shave, and my mother would not so lovingly describe my odor as ripe. Along with a squished face: >2<

There was a fluttering crinkle as the paper fell having been dropped carelessly. Words soon fell out as recklessly, "Well that sucked." She said it with a bright teasing smile supposing that my sloppy penmanship was due to last minute work. Much of my other assignments look and are done so.
I look away from Martin and down at my original excerpt expecting it to have crumbled at her words before laughing out a response myself.
"It is isn't it?"
We laughed apathetically. Through my lie she knew that she'd gotten it wrong. I couldn't let on how much that hurt. It would do more damage to her that she'd unintentionally done to me. So I joked.
"It's not like you yourself are Shakespeare," I forced my voice to a sweet sarcastic tone as I finished. "I saw you scribbling this second hour."
Martin protested claiming to be better than Shakespeare before we laughed and moved on to the third part of the assignment. We pointed out many flaws and marked up the papers to correct them. There were some good points but most of them were in her. I'm not a talented writer. I also don't particularly enjoy the activity so I'm at a loss as of why I pushed through and wrote so much for a low point assignment. I'd really only needed a paragraph but I'd written pages. Luckily I only rushed and copied a sole paragraph which is what Martin read.
Days pass in blues. I find myself in my room alone in silence with wet eyes for no reason. It's my parents date night and my little sister being who she is is babysitting. I'm stuck inside my head. My thoughts trail pitifully from half-hearted attempts at defense and escape to slinging insults and hatred. I'm a pitiful and ugly thing.
I slip into my way of coping. I turn on my phone and music pours out with lyrics louder and more powerful than my mind. I drown myself because I cannot swim and there is no one to pull me out. An ocean poured out of me; salty and pooling in a hollow formed by upturned shoulders and my clavicle.
That's angst. And how soberly laughable my pain is as it is pointless and un-producing.
My phone buzzes. An atrociously cheery text lit up my phone.
"Hey!"-Martin
And just like that I'd resurfaced. My ears hurt and my eyes ached and I was lucky there'd been no makeup to smear. I quickly responded.

“Hey! What’s up with you I haven’t heard much in awhile ;P”

“Yeah sorry my phone died on the busride and stayed that way most of the band trip. Wbu?”-Martin

“Not much though school was a little boring without all your interjections”

I stare at the canvas resting on my legs. Pencil marks lightly trace out what is vaguely a face. Untouched paint tubes and unused brushes are splayed around me. I want to create beauty. I remain staring afraid that I will be inadequate at recreating the beauty in her face.

I gently lift the canvas up as if attempting to not even stir the air. I came up along with it. Standing there trapped by my own ambitions I glanced at the face sketched lightly before hurtling it as violently as I can against the adjacent wall. There was a shudder of sound but not much damage done. I took one long stride out of my circle and lifted the canvas again. I slammed it against the wall. I swung again and again. Leaving splintered wood, frayed fabric, and a dented wall I left my room. No one cared. No one was home. I walked into the restroom next to my room and locked the door. The latter action was unnecessary but I didn’t trust the emptiness not to follow me if I hadn’t. I stripped bare.

Hot water poured over me. It burned angrily. My skin revolted against it by tingling and growing pinker in hues. At times like these I wish I could scream. A scream to rid me of this unkempt rage.

Instead I stood there feeling like a shell even though I know I’m still here. I still have lungs, blood, and a brain. My stomach feels a tad empty though.

Eventually I manage to twist the nozzle till its cold in which the water pelts over me like hundreds of slaps all over my body. I am awake. I snap the shower off and am greeted by the thick warm I’d created. The heat tranced me back into the feeling of grogginess. I rub myself dry. My hair however feels wet enough to supply another shower but only a few drops come out so I lather myself in lotion. I won’t be untouchable because of rough skin as people avoid physical contact enough as it is. Anti-sweat formulas are also applied. I’m erectly placed in front of the vanity mirror with no other purpose than to search for physical flaws. I’m not revolting by any standards I know besides maybe the barbie franchise. I prod at my stomach. It moves easily despite being flat as there's little to no muscle tone. This is true for all of my body. I'm not strong, beautiful, or striking not even ugly enough to be mentionable. I am average. I look as if God or whoever is in charge of genetics has taken all the variables and blended them up. I'm familiar and average but don't look like anyone in particular either. I shake my head none of that really makes sense. Maybe in the same sense of a dream I suppose. I have the beginning of a headache gnawing at my temples.

The boxes are gone leaving piles in their place. My Mom has gone through and meticulously recreated our old home. It can be sickening sometimes because I forget about the move but then it will hit me all over again. It's difficult to summarize it all like knowing the symptoms of a disease but not the cause.

I'm now laying on my mattress in loose clothes. I should feel light but I have a pressure resting on me. I stare forward. I cannot see them but I know that piles resembling my worthlessness fill my room's floor.

Author's Note

Advice please! Also did it provoke a reaction at all?
hoboism