Another coffee. I feel stiff. My muscles tense. My shoulders. I wish he'd text me sweet things right now. I like it when he calls.

Truth is, I'm a calculating conniving bitch. Fox. Nothing I say or do is unthought of. What comes off as natural is artificial. Scripted. Planned. I live by method acting. I have no centre whatsoever. No base. No root. I take form of anything they prefer me to be. I consist of nothing. I'm like a trumpet or flute. Blow air through me and I sing. I'm hollow. I thrive off of external validation. Live by it. Live for it. I revolve my entire existence around it. How can I be anything of personal substance if the only thing I survive off of is provided externally?

I talk till I reach regret.