I'm cold cold cold.
My parent's house is not the escape I was looking for.
I lock myself in here without the heat to prove a point.
What point, you ask?
Well, uhhhh, I don't know.

I dug out an old sweatshirt from 6th grade basketball.
It's still too big.
If  I stretch my arms out towards the lack of sky
My tiny, chubby, baby hands peek through.
They are very cold.
I wonder if our babies will have my hands or Javin's.

I could never be a communist.
The theoretical kind of communism, of course.
I am very territorial.

If my fear
is an illusion,
so is my
hope.

I'm a liar.
I've been pretending this whole time, and it's a shame that no one notices.
I am sad again, and terribly lost.
I hate eating. I hate being this, being me.
I want to go back to my support at the program, I want to leave this ugly real world
and go back.
I want daily meetings and supervision. I want to feel special and important
I want to be happy.
and I'm just not.
No one notices;
not my boyfriend who's been out all night partying with his friends.
not my bestfriend who just left to Cabo.
not my mom who hasn't spoken to me in days.
not my ownself who's going ******* insane.
I need someone, anybody, everybody.
I'm alone and I hate it.
I hate every ******* thing.

**is it too much to want to be loved?