when i was little, it was endearing,
and my parents would smile behind their hands and whisper:
“she has very small circles, but she loves who she loves.”
and i would frown behind mine because i loved no one.
or maybe that’s a lie; i think i love my father.
i know i love my brother, and i might love my mother.
i tell my friends i love them, with my hands over theirs,
and i love myself, sometimes, on some days.
i tell people that being angry is difficult, and that is true.
(it’s one of the only truths that i consistently tell.)
they think it’s “hard” in terms of emotional strain,
but really, it’s hard to feel anything at all.
when i was little, i thought i was a sociopath.
i liked to tear the fur out of mice.
i’d pull off a moth’s wing, drown ants in soap,
lie to my parents, just to see what they’d say.
i’m not altruistic, and i don’t love my fellow man,
and i’m not sure if i feel love at all.
i can’t understand the way people speak about love,
and none of their siren songs can entice me.
i feel things often, but not like i'm supposed to.
i don't understand how others speak of emotion; the depth of it,
and the meaning, all seem simultaneously so large, and so trivial,
like simple pleasantries that you could drown in.
all the relationships i have are worked at by other people,
because that is something of which i am not capable.
it’s not that i get bored, exactly, but i do give up and leave,
and i don’t feel much remorse when they beg, or they cry,
and i never regret it.
now i’m older, and i think i have spd,
along with depression and anxiety,
and maladaptive daydreaming (probably),
and avoidant behavior and possible ocd.
i don’t want anything that i could name.
i don’t want to love or be loved.
i don’t want fortune or fame.
i don’t want anything, except maybe to die.
but to die may be just too much work, honestly.
so i’ll just die in my head. over and over and over and over
and over and over again.
and over and over and over and over and over and over again.