Towel Thrown

It’s all Greek to me.

Greek, French, Spanish, whatever.  The point of the matter is: I cannot seem to do anything right.  Fighting against my ideals of self-worth – trying to put as much energy into positivity as possible, believing there’s a little section of shanties living under my lip shouting out absurd obscenities that push people away.

That’s all I ever manage to do.

So, onward, plight of my soul.  I’m still screaming out at the stars for reasons I’ve grown up believing.  There’s only that beaten up, tired-ass metaphor left for me, and I’ve taken myself out of that cesspool.

What is this hindrance?  What is wrong with my perceived reality?  What do I exude that makes it impossible to love me?

We are social creatures.  We want to be together, with other creatures of our mettle.

Oh am I

So hard to love

1. Holly Conlan ref.