What is it about me? I mean, actually I think I know. It’s my neediness, and my clingy nature. I don’t really want to be this way, but it’s who I am. I guess men sense it in me and they run the other way. They run a mile, sometimes thousands of miles. As time goes by, I am becoming more independent, but this does not seem to make me any less “needy.” And gosh, I have really grown to hate that word. I am starting to come to the conclusion that I am just not loveable. Women love me, but men: no.
I don’t want to pretend to be something I’m not. I know I’m a square peg. I like being one … most of the time. All the people who I love and admire had that awful feeling of not belonging too, all of the great artists and poets. But I am no artist or poet, I’m just a stranger in a strange land, wishing for a place to belong. Who knows if that place even exists.
My heart is tired.