Changes in my core
I know I’m being obnoxious tonight. I know I’ve angered many a friend tonight. I know I’m doing the wrong things, and I know I should stop. It’s like I know everything — except why this is happening.
We sit down and talk and laugh. All of us, a random group of my friends. I understand that they would not all be together if not for the common factor, me. I wonder if they know their support doesn’t even really help me as we sit there.
They open the box, and I realize once again the ugliness of my mind. Their mouths start to water; I taste acid. I direct the conversation away from it.
I realize I can’t get away with just not eating for the entire night. I pick up a fry and nibble slowly.
My sides clench as I recognize my near future. My mood falls as I brace myself — for my mood falling. I wonder, do I bring this upon myself?
I throw a fit. I act like the ungrateful, ignorant child I am inside. People tell me I’m mature, but I see now that if I don’t act like a child, my needs will be put on the back burner. Even farther back than usual, an accomplishment for me.
My friends pretend it’s normal. I openly speak about my agony, and I curtly inform them that they are the last people I want for company and would rather stay at home forever than deal with social interactions.
What happened to the girl with wings, that beautiful, social butterfly? But, I think, butterflies die after reproducing. I’ve created people who want me, and in turn have learned to not want anyone else.
