The True Life of a Sad Girl

not finished

I never know how to respond when asked to describe myself. It's not that I'm vain, it's just that I possess these ridiculously cautious, hidden answers that catch in my throat, fighting each other to all get out at once. They don't know who's the better, and neither do I. They create a glue as they're duking it out, only there isn't any duking out. They can't do anything in glue. They stick to the walls of my throat and regret not having taken a chance. Adhesive regret. I like to think this comes with the territory.

I know I'm never going to do anything great, but I'm not mad about it anymore. The world needs people of my grayscale, my lackluster. We make room for great people. We advance the world, by leaving room for the greats and their advancements. We are the androgynous audience. We are pale base of any canvas. I don't mind, though.

I'll never keep my room clean, because it's got glue as well. There's a stickiness and stuckness to anything I do. Not because things are hard, but guilt has got my reigns and it chokes the bit in my mouth any time I try to lift a finger. Simply put, I can't finish my homework because of my weight gain. I'm stupid that way.