Dear Diary

I don’t know why I did it, I don’t know why I lied. I wish I went to that birthday party so I could at least say I tried. But there’s always this half of me, that tells me I cannot go. When I ask myself why, I simply don’t know. 

It haunts me right now, it hasn’t even been a week yet. But I keep thinking about it and how I could’ve made them upset. Then again, perhaps, i’m not significant to them anyways...so it wouldn’t bother them as much- as someone instead of me not showing up. 

But it eats me away. Every single day. How i keep making up excuses, rejecting invitations and how I’m afraid of this thing called “participation”.

Can’t be too loud, can’t smile or laugh too much. Can’t talk too often and can’t deserve love. Can’t do anything right, dubbed “socially awkward”. 

Again, seated at the same old chair I’ve come to call my corner of this world, where I sit for an hour everyday and hopelessly seek out for something, anything, to pass my time, something to pass me by, something that’ll make me go say, “ah, I worked hard today. It was a good day” 

I think about it. I think about it a lot. Things that I can do. Things that I can’t do. Things that I need to- things I simply must do. That brings me back to thinking about the countless tests, mocks and exams I must take in this dull yet blossoming life of mine. 

Cold fingertips pressed against artificially heated buttons, i trace out an outline of my train of thoughts. Mere lines, just words, on a screen, reaching out endlessly to no one. I lay back and wonder, will anyone ever hear this voice of mine? This voice that is made of cold, freezing cold fingertips tracing out lies.

There’s days when you feel beautiful and then there’s days when you feel like the ugliest person on the planet. Today is one of those days. Those days when you feel like you want to change and have this “glow up”

I toss and turn on my bed, thinking about how I had spent the last week walking 8km or more every single day while starving myself on a diet of just a banana for 24 hours each and yet somehow I managed to perfectly maintain that imperfect weight. 

I get up and look in the mirror to see a girl, average height, average face, if anything, covered by acne scars, bumps all over forehead, a few blackheads here and there, holes and craters where cysts used to thrive and a nice thick layer of sebum all over the face to give it that extra oily glow it needs to highlight all of my misery. 

I try to avoid looking at the face and my eyes can’t help but land on that big belly and as i lower my gaze even further, thighs that could be the size of someone’s waist- body hair all over the place just to add onto the feeling of being disgustingly human. 

Stretch-marks covering every inch of my skin where acne could not have reached, some still red and purple, fresh and new- a sign that I am still growing. Growing the wrong way.