The House of Flora

I am transparent.
I am transparent
I am transparent.

My personality is cancerous. I'm convinced. And no one will ever read this, because it's not really worth their time. I'm not really worth their time. I'm not really worth anyone's time. I'm not valuable. Not anymore. I was once--back when I could say something wise, or philosophical, or hysterical to break the tension. But I'm not anymore. I don't have my cards in order, and I always say the odd thing. I can't make jokes because I'm too stiff, and then I make everyone uncomfortable. People know I'm in my head when I talk to them. They know I'm worrying about my weight, and my hair, and my skin, and that I checked my breath, and my teeth, and my nose, and my makeup ten times before I left the house. They can tell that my neck hurts because I am tense, and I'm already listing all the reasons why I'm the lamest one at the party--standing in the way.

I am in the way.
I am in the way.
I am in the way.

I think I was once exotic. But something snapped. And now I'm mean. And all my energy goes into trying to hide it, because no one knows how mad I really am. And how sad I really am. And how lonely I really am.

And I think I've stopped showering
Because no one cares.

Because if no one else loves me,
Then I can't love me.

And it's all my fault because
I can't seem to make myself worthy.
I can't seem to make myself


Seen.