I want so badly to text The Golfer, to set something up, to know I’m on his mind, to know I’m special.
My skin crawls with my need for it, empty and fleeting like the cravings for sugar. I feel dirty with it.
I’m a mother fucking junkie for attention.
I’m jonesin’. And no, I’m not trying to be precious.
I’m really dying to know I’m not invisible, that I’m worthy and seen and wonderful. But I’m tired and sad and bleeding and really just too good for any of this.
Too good to pine over a boy who clearly doesn’t want me. Too good to waste my energy. And too good to waffle about it. It’s not him – spin the wheel on the man – it’s about being desired and that desire equaling worth in my brain.
I have to keep an eye on me: I’m not all that trustworthy, either.