daunting.
that blank page.
even moreso, a book of pages.
waiting for genius to spill.
waiting for life. for blood. for hope. for sorrow. for pain. for ecstasy. for grace.
i am afraid to write sometimes. afraid of what i’ll find out. having an expectation for everything written to be a revelation. scared to find out that i just might be full of it.
new relationships are like blank pages. but they are far more terrifying. i am my own worst critic in someone else’s eyes. when i put myself in their shoes and look back at me, i can’t imagine what they like.
sometimes i feel needy. i need them to tell me that i am, in fact, worth something. that’s why it’s so easy for me to pull away. i retreat. waiting for a reaction. do they like me because they have to? because i’m there? if i wasn’t, would they look for me?
i have pushed so many people away this way. if you don’t work for my friendship then you won’t get it. but i’m a hypocrite. do i work that hard for anyone else? no.
really, how selfish am i?
i am in this sick cycle that i can’t break.
but what scares me the most is that i’m comfortable here. this dysfunction is normal and i’m afraid to function outside of it.