Diary of a Dying Girl (Pt. 5)

Entry Five

Diary of a Dying Girl (Pt. 5)


This one. That one. Hate one. Bang one. Kiss one. Keep none.

You buried the bullet.

I'm convinced that this isn't even roulette anymore. You point and shoot at anything, and when the bullet clicks in place you remove it and proceed to shoot empty barrels again. It's like you're afraid of finally hitting the mark.

You spread your legs like you get paid for it. And I know that you're searching for something, some force of nature, to love you back but this isn't the way to go about it.

There are days when I wonder what it would be like to be you. How it'd feel to be the one that always gets the compliments from strangers. To be the girl that strips down to a little less than the essentials and posts pictures for the enjoyment of random men. I always wondered what it'd be like to be you.

As a dying girl, I lack the careless trait. I can't give it up to whoever's asking. I can't run in circles, meeting the same guy with a different face. So even though I wonder how it must feel to have your reflection—I've never wanted it for myself.

This self-sabotage sure does get you a lot of attention, and yet you complain about it. You sleep with all of these men, hang around long enough for them to get tired of you, and when they cut you off, you rage.

You blame them, as if they forced you into bed in the first place.

I'm not saying that your reverse harem isn't at all to blame. I'm just trying to understand why you constantly, and desperately, chase things that you know are no good.

You run to apps and try to find quality men. As if prince charming is bound to be the shirtless fool taking a selfie in a dirty bathroom mirror.

You can't keep sticking your hands in the fire, and then yell at the fire when it burns you. Didn't you know it was fire when you saw it?

Just STOP. The one thing I'd beg of you if I could do so without your explosive reaction.

I know that our world is hellbent on teaching you that being naked, careless, easy, angry, and available somehow translates to being a "body-confident feminist." It's bull. Confidence is having the strength to be private. To be bold enough to not show every inch of yourself to the highest bidder.

The body is a masterpiece, but it is not meant to be shown to absolutely everyone.

I am the first that needs to learn about the dangers of belittling yourself. And with that said, I am aware of the fact that you need to do the same. Stop placing your value in whomever you crawl in and out of bed with.

"She pops Plan B like candy."

I think that is probably the worst thing I've ever been told about you. What's worse is that it's completely true.

You don't know how to love yourself, because you have never spent any time by yourself. You're always "talking" to someone or sleeping with someone. There's always someone else. And I think that along the way, you forgot about yourself.

You've got to put the gun down. I know you're addicted to the game, but there's only one thing roulette is good for—killing.

How does it work?
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Diary Of A Dying Girl

 Synesthetic. Chaotic. Bothered. instagram : @ofadyinggirl twitter: dyinggirl3

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