This post scares even me (I'm not sure who this person is.)

You see these girls?
Me: Not one of them.
In any way, SHAPE, or form.

I realise something now. He regrets it. Doesn't he?

He regrets it.
He regrets it.
He regrets it.

He regrets me.

He made a mistake.
He doesn't want:
To see me.
Speak to me.
(He can't. If he did... if he did... he would have... said... so... Obviously)

He is ashamed.

He fucked the ugly, fat girl.
I am the ugly, fat girl.
I am disgusting.
Fuckingdisgusting.

Why? Why did he have to touch me? Look at me? Why did he do it? A secret: He wants me to be a secret. He is ashamed. I am ugly. I am. I am, am I not? If I wasn't; he would want me. Want me for himself.
I've seen what his ex looks like: Thin. So thin. So thin and beautiful. He loved her. For four whole years. Four whole years. He can't even consider liking me. He can't even do that. He had to sit me down, tell me the 'parameters'; he doesn't 'want to hurt me', he knows I'm not in a 'good space'. He knows.
Knows he made a mistake. And that he had to clean up the debris. The mess. Make it better, make it go away, make me disappear, pretend it never happened.

Pretend it never happened.
Pretend it never happened.
Pretend it never happened.
Pretend it never happened.
It never happened.
What? What never happened.
That he never... kissed me... held me... what? What, say it; made you happy? Made you feel good about yourself? (Well that won't fucking do.)

Pretend (it was all pretend):
That I ever believed he could like me.
That I was ever happy, glad, thankful (t.h.a.n.k.f.u.l. of all the shameful feelings) because I thought - for a few short days - that he wanted me, at least in some stupid pathetic carnal, you're-a-hole-to-stick-my-dick-in, way.

I was thankful.
THANKFUL.
Thankful that you even looked at me.
Thankful.

How pathetic. How sad.
And do you know why you were thankful?
Because you feel alone. And unloved. And unlovable. You look in the mirror and you are disgusted by yourself. Your body: it's revolting. Fat. Bloated. Obese. Huge. Disgusting. Morbid.

Because I wish I could die.

I wish I was dead.
I wish I was dead.
I wish I was dead.
Just to be out of this body.

Away from this disease.
For one fucking day.

Do you know that I wished for, prayed for, wanted an eating disorder.
Did you know that?
And now I have you. All that I ever wanted.
So thank you.
Thank you for making me see how alone and unlovable and cold and hard I am.
How ugly.
How wrecked.
Thank you.

Thank you.
I am thankful.
Pathetic.
Exhausted (purge-burnt hand and purge-torn mouth and lesions and scars and sagging flesh and rib bones, though too few, and tears and tears and tears, and pain, and self-hate, and weakness, thank you especially for that).

Thank-you: because maybe one day I will disappear, maybe, maybe one day, I won't be somebody's regret, least of all my own.

Maybe one day I won't use you to get what I want, and wake up to find that I never got it anyway, maybe you'll use me; use me all up, rip me up melt me down wear me away like the rock beneath the salty sandy waves washing back and forth back and goddamn forth day in day out inescapable wearing moulding reshaping destroying, everyday, over and over and over and over. Maybe one day I'll be alone. Alone again. Without you. (Him? Her? Me? I don't know.)

Alone.
Without the world to see me.
To remind me that I'm not enough, I'm nothing, I'm worthless and useless, and I don't make sense to it.

Can you imagine? What he would say, do, think, if he knew this was what I really was. Howwhichwhat I am, I am, I always have been, will be, am-am-am forever.
Can you?
I wouldn't be revolting, ugly, irritating...anymore.
I'd be terrifying.
It is terrifying. In here. Sometimes. I am terrified. (Though I have nowhere else to go...)

He would run sixteen hundred million twelve thousand one million miles and miles and miles away.
So far away.
Even further.

How could I believe he wanted me?
That I meant something: intimacy, or friendship, or care or compassion, or lust, attraction, wanting, needing, having to have it, satisfy it, else you might die.

Why am I pretending I'm okay with what happened?
Because if anybody knew the truth I would chase them all one thousand million hundred so many miles away.
They would know I'm all fucked up and that I can't do life. I can't do. I can't be.
And I must be acceptable. Because if I can't be wanted. At least I can be allowed, around, not shunned (No.), not discarded (No.).

Earn your place bitch.

Nobody wants you here.
Nobody wants you.
Nobody wants you.

He regrets you.

You can try pretend it never happened; but it did.
You thought you could handle it; but you fucked up. (Got drunk and) fucked up again.
It's not a surprise is it?
And you want to know something really sad.
Stupid silly pathetic fat bitch.
You're still thankful. Don't lie: You are.
You are. You are. You are.

Thankful that he even fucking looks at you.

And you would do it again.
Right now.
Even though - now you know - now you see - it's destroying you.

I'm going to win.
If you're not careful: I am going to win.