Beloved,

I know you're probably not even there, and you don't have to read this- I just need to get this out, and on some sort of paper, and journaling to myself has never worked for me, just like walking with no purpose. If there isn't an intent, if there isn't a subject, a person or a place, if there isn't something to direct towards, the effort is worthless, which ends in endlessness... God, those words sound empty, like something that an attention seeking novellist would write at the beginning of her memoirs. This isn't a memoir.
This is a story, a story about how I feel at these moments, not my last, mostly because I feel that would be melodramatic and none too tasteful, to die in April- too rainy for funerals. No, kill me in August, when the sun is still blazingly hot and difficult to deal with, when I'm exhausted from work and my family, when I've been away for far too long and can't even look to despise anymore, because I'm so disgustingly worn out. Yes, kill me in August.
Right now, I'm obsessed with you. That sick obsession that draws me in, wraps it's long, scarf-like hands around my throat and squeezes, until I can't write, can't breathe, can't even sleep without thinking of you. Only this time, it's different.
In times past, I messed around. I flirted with the internet countlessly and without shame. Now I feel the shame, dark, looming as I realize that I am ugly, I am worthless and I truly am a worm.
Only a worm could cheat so blatantly, could wrap it's slimy hands around you and then use them to type the disgusting words I have.
I want to be raped.
Isn't that sick? Isn't it especially sick after I have been?
You want to believe she's wrong- that I'm not ill, that I don't want attention. I do. I crave your attention. I want you to hold me and kiss me and be happy with me. But you're not. You're sad and stressed and busy- too busy for me right now. So I'll pack it all away, closet my pretenses and envelope myself into this sick mold I am becoming. I'll lock away my selfish desires, box it all, and start writing down my thoughts here- where nobody but the anonymous masses, those who breathe, and sleep, and eat the thoughts of others, those who cannot possibly dream any longer, and have thrust themselves at the mercy of strangers. People like me.
I shall not be the dastardly vilaine in your plot any longer.
Never doubt I love- even though it's early, even though you don't-
-Me