Word Vomit #1

Do you really understand?
I bet you don't.
I take advice from random objects, I pull meaning from nothing. But if you feel how I think you feel, then my eyeliner and purple tights aren’t worth anything.
I thought I was over you. But the carousel of winter and the satisfaction of anxiety hidden from feeling like a real teenager is just too much: short videos that you may or may not see are waiting to be picked up. By using smoke clouds and haircuts and thumbs and emoticons, you somehow took me and held me and didn't let go.
Please don't do this again. Don't do it. This is why you feel how you do. Did you pull me up from the mud to see my broken face and feel confidence? Did you throw me back down to feel power?
I'm nothing to you. And I knew it. How could I be so deliriously oblivious? So blissfully oblivious. So blissful.
That doesn't even matter. Bliss is far away, bliss is in my twenties. A fourteen year old girl does not deserve something as fragile and rare as bliss.
You don't regret it. You don't regret anything. You move from problem to problem and you never dwell, unless you're talking to me. In which case you dump so much shit that dwelling doesn't even fit the definition. You wallow.
Why am I your sponge? Why am I everyone's sponge? I am bloated and beaten. I am tired. I am dead.
Please forget me.
I fill pages of you. I drip on the page, dripping and dripping until I'm waiting and ready for you to fill me back up. I'm your fucking sponge.
Maybe this is temporary. I know it can be. I know it will be, since nothing is ever permanent. Not even us. Not what we leave behind, not our art or music or philosophies. We are all just waiting to be destroyed.
So pain isn't permanent, either. Which means you won't last. You'll never last. You'll break before I do.
What are you? You're definitely human. You're probably the most human thing I've ever seen. Loathing, hate, self-pity but mostly hunger is all trapped in your body. Your body, which always seems to be holding too much.
So I'll just wait. If logic is closer to reality than dreaming and hoping, then you'll leave and I'll cry, but I'll cry temporarily.
You'll never be permanent.
I'm trapped by my scared point of view, I'm trapped by my insecurities about who I should be. I'm trapped by insignificant love that was temporary, which I left at home. I left it in my school bag on the porch at night, I left it in my locker at school, I left it in the radio at night, I left it in texting.
I'm fourteen, on the brink of a new journey. I'm fourteen and I've felt nothing. I'm fourteen and I'm waiting, waiting on the edge of my seat for something, anything to happen at all.
Everyday is the same, and I'm waiting. I'm waiting for love. Im waiting for security, I'm waiting for certainty. I can't even express how much I am ready to hatch from this egg. I am sitting on the dawn of the revolution from myself and my feet and my back and my thighs ache from readiness.