where does love come from?

I swear to you that one day this sensation in the pit of my stomach will go away and I swear that the very second that it does, I will yearn for it to come back. That's the thing. It's just history repeating itself. And I am very well aware of the outcome, but that doesn't stop my mind from wandering or my stomach from fluttering, or my palms from sweating, or my skin from bleeding. You know what you do. Every objective has a purpose and no one seems to heed to mine. Its like I am in some sort of giant bubble and I can't break myself out. Someone else has to to do it. But who. No one ever really wants to see me for who I am. Sometimes they pretend to, sometimes they never even try. But time and time again, I slice my heart open for someone to dissect and they get a random spurt of A.D.D. and find something better to do. How many times can a person eat rotten food before they realize they're going to vomit and shit all over the place every single time. Too graphic for you? Then fuck you. My bones and joints crunch and pop and I am self aware of the fact that my body is quitting on me. I will still ignore it. Everything is swollen including my heart and my ability to care. I start to get goosebumps as I imagine running barefoot until I get an asthma attack and double over. Everything is fleeting me now. My worries, my lovers, the people who lied when they told me they would always listen. Like screaming at a chalk board until my sounds turn into my fingernails. I want to cry. I want to turn my fingers into fists but instead I use them to click a bunch of keys. I've never been violent. It's always been pent up inside of me and oozes over into angst and sorrow. I'm trying to refrain from puking my feelings into a mess for you to clean up, so I'll swallow them instead. The things we all do, all for our own reasons, but does anybody ever really stop to think about it? I'd much rather be climbing out of your window in my underwear searching for a taste of reality than to be like this. I'd rather be fucking bald from pulling all my hair out than to be like this. I'd rather be exploring in some woods behind the house I used to live in that we had to give up because everything is unfair and I don't get to have a say, than to be fucking like this. Why don't you go exploit your senseless bullshit somewhere else? huh? Why don't you ever hit me like you mean it? Make me bleed, make me fucking care because it is obvious as fuck that you do not. Tell me you love me. I haven't actually heard it. I haven't actually been awake this entire time. Actually, I've been in a slumber, or hibernation of sorts. I've been bruising my knuckles on nothing but paper and cloth. Nobody ever actually wants my attention. Nobody ever realizes that I'm probably the only one who will do anything nice just because I can. Another night alone. Hungry. Sad. Angry. Nobody seems to notice when I don't eat. Or when I start bleeding. Or when I start slipping into depression merely because its cold outside and that just really makes me fucking sad, okay? I can't even have a tale of addiction. Its become so pathetic. Honestly, the lines have blurred between hating everyone, and just self loathing. I literally don't even know how to feel anymore. I sleep for hours just never having to get up. Really...get up. Wake up. Wake the fuck up. Sometimes, every thing is okay. Sometimes, the sun hits my skin just right and it makes me feel human. Sometimes, I wake up and I see myself in a room where I used to live. Where I had friends and a father. Where the worst thing was just a boy who I would be repulsed by when I got older. I'd still eat over the counter drugs and have monologues with the silhouettes of people who I thought would remain in my life but never did. They'd open their mouths and music would pour out of them as if it were its own language. It was. It is. I have become a moth to a light bulb. But someone has turned off the light and I have no idea where I am, where I am going, or how I even got here. I just wanted it, so I went for it. Its like that one time when I realized that nobody else loves the things I love the way I love them, so I went alone. Then I realized nobody ever loves me the way I love them, so I stayed outside alone for hours until money was dealt in order to be thought about. I'm shaking. I'm lying. I'm trying not to be desperate, but I am. Yet still, nothing can compare to the feeling of comfort. Security. The warmth of a pair of arms wrapped around you. Here's to wishful thinking. I am still the teenager who never found her place in the world. One day someone will love me. One day my body will stop betraying me. One day my sexual frustrations will fleet me like my own self pity and misery. Maybe, I'll be a butterfly instead. People like butterflies.