like how did i
miss america 1995
dreaming of something
and being beautiful
to my daddy
and some boys
ever manage to be
so fucking sad.
i’m actually not crazy
contrary to popular belief
pretty sane
to understand all
this psychology
at such a young age
to be so fluent
at this language
and others
and only manage to
engage you from afar
while you love dipshits
and i’m alone
alone
alone
alone.
why am i alone?
i don’t get it.
i don’t understand it.
it doesn’t make sense
my number is 5
FIVE.
FIVE.
that is insane.
whatever
i’ll just complain
and you’ll get mad
cuz i’m alyssa sharpe.
can’t you just pretend
you don’t exist
so we can take
the rest of it?
please don’t talk
highly of yourself
alyssa sharpe.
if you do
i might FREAK OUT.
who are you alyssa?
no one has ever heard of you.
no one ever talks about you.
no one knows you.
you have literally never had a friend.
that’s the end.
RIGHT?
like how would i have failed
at life this fucking bad?
make it make sense.
someone love me.
i’m sick of being
depressed and alive.
i’m sick of all of it.
i’m sick of you asking
me
if i need help
or asking people
who once knew me
if i need help.
i don’t need help.
i just want my friends
that are on my level
and my men
that are on my level.
instead i get
well i said it–
crickets.
i’m so sad.
