I’m angry. I’m angry at why it has to be about a boy every time I wish to write. I’m angry because I can’t write or paint or create whatever the fuck without reading/watching my work through the eyes of someone else. Why do I try to imagine how somebody else will feel about my work? I’m angry because my sister and I had a fight and it makes my blood boil how disrespectful and intolerant she is becoming. I’m angry because the boy I liked until yesterday is not so likeable right now. It’s because he keeps sending me music. I don’t want new music. I’m angry because I can’t detach him from the last album he sent me. I loved it but I can’t listen to it without a feeling of dissonance with the music because it’s second hand. I am unsure if how I felt the first time I listened to it were my own thoughts or his. I’m angry because it doesn’t make sense to be angry for getting music recommendations. I’m angry because I suck at writing. I am angry that the few qualities that used to help me replenish my self worth, I feel are getting stripped off me and it hurts. I never tried to work on my art. I am angry I think ten times before I post something on social media, I want to stop being that fucking mindful of people. I’m angry because love sounds good only in movies and stories and in lives that aren’t mine. I can’t being myself to it. The moment of earliest realisation that this might be love is always coupled with repulsion and rejection in my mind. I’m angry because romance is fucking disgusting.

I’m angry because I can’t paint in one of these rare occurences of a creative prompt. All my supplies are in the room that my sister has locked herself in. I’m angry we fought.

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