Pity Party for One

I wonder what would happen if anyone actually knew me.  If they could split me open like some piece of rotted fruit and see everything.  This person... the one that dresses like her mother, hides behind her weight, and smiles at the entire fucking world is a piece of of shit fraud.  I don't write for a reason.  When I write, I speak truth.  I talk about the things I want, but can't have.  The pain I miss every fucking day.  The stranger seared into my brain.  I drown myself every fucking day in the fantasies of others so I can deny my own.  I want.  I want so much.  I complacently settle for the life of a middle class office bitch when I crave so much more.  And then?  Then I deny my past and cope with the anxiety and depression in a Mary Jane haze. Then I write dirty stories with my friends because it's the one thing that triggers my pulse.  And when my friends are gone, I go scary places inside.   Honestly.  I really am a piece of shit. I believe if anyone really knew me, they'd just walk away.  Plenty have.   Fuck, I would.