My words have no meaning until they are validated by you. I beg. I plead.
Please accept me.
Please care for me.
Please see me.
Please hear me.
Please love me.
It's pointless. My history is cyclic with the present. I seek you. I find you. I engage you. I beg. I plead.
Prove me dull.
Let me cry.
Show me I'm inferior to you and others.
Give me what I expect.
I know it will be worse otherwise. If you learn enough. I'm not quite right. There's something deeply troubling. Nobody ever quite figured it out. I think it's that I'm really quite selfish and horrible. But I couldn't tell you for certain. I lost myself long ago. Now I'm nothing more than a cultural chameleon. I can assimilate briefly enough to convince myself that I'm in love. That I can't live without it. Without that. Without them. Without you. I'm not writing about you. Then like a switch I realize you're bored. You're done. You've moved on. I'm still not talking about you. I've lost my validation from you. I've lost hope. I awake the next day different. I've learned so much. Thank you. (Not you.)