I'm sure this one will be revisited in the future.
He's the part of me that likes to cry. He is: weak vulnerable diminishable easily forgotten invisible clingy desperate dependent a scaredy-cat a cry baby. He's that little kid who followed his older brother around until he said, "Fuck you. Find your own friends." He's annoying, a mama's boy, the type of person you don't want around, but won't go away.
I am strong. I am independent. I'm brave. I'm creative and intelligent. I get things done on my own, I don't need any help. I am assertive and cool. People like what I say. I'm popular, a natural speaker. I never get stage fright. People invite me out because they enjoy my company, not because they feel sorry. I'm active and attractive, your all American male. I never ask for help. But, when I'm hurt and alone, all I want is a hug. When I'm vulnerable and scared, I need someone to say it's okay. But I refuse to say there's anything I need. I refuse to be happy.
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