(A/N): Baaah! I'm so sorry that I'm really not updating a lot, and that when I am, it's just these depressing little thingys. Hmmmph. I could really use some inspiration. Gah! I pulled a Kurt tonight (I completely blew a high note), except that I made everyone else on stage look bad! Crap, I feel guilty! And last night, I pressured a guy I like to sing 'Baby It's Cold Outside' with me at a big show at the zoo. Yeah, his mic broke. I'm a guilty little piece of crap! And that's the story that inspired this... uh, bout of depression! I freaking love you all!
Disclaimer: Haha, you're funny! You really think that I own Glee? Girrrrrl, what are you smoking, and where can I get some?
They all say that I'm dainty. That I can't be a 'real man' (or whatever those Neanderthals call it) because I'm just too girly. They say that I can never be one of them, because I'm just not one of them. And I'm not. But it still hurts.
They say I'm soft. They say that I'm hurt too easily (so, typically, their response is to try to hurt me more), because I can't handle it. They say I can never take the stress of being a man. And I couldn't. But it still hurts.
They say I'm too prissy. That I can never fit in (which is truly a relative term) because I act so superior. They say that I act like I'm above them, like I'm too meticulous and bitchy to be a 'dude.' And they're right. But it still hurts.
They say I'm the odd one out. That it's just not possible for someone as different as me (though no two people are exactly alike) to ever fly under the radar. They say that I'll always attract too much attention to be anonymous. And I do. But it still hurts.
But this… this side of me is different. They wouldn't say any of that if they knew about this. If they knew the true story – the one that I would tell anyone if they would just ask – they would never view me the same way.
I'm not dainty. Those scars show that I can just man up and take the pain. That I make sacrifices, that I can survive enough to be one of them. And I can. But it still hurts.
I'm not soft. The skin has grown calloused, hardening, just trying to keep the blade at bay. I have hardened all of myself (my heart included), trying to keep the pain – physical and mental – out, trying to be tough, to be a man; just like I was born. And I can. But it still hurts.
I'm not prissy. I don't sanitize the blade; part of me hopes that I'll get an infection, and someone will find the urge to care (or, better yet, I'll just die from it). I don't wipe the blood clean. I wallow in the filth and pain of it all; I try to suck it up like a 'dude.' And I can. But it still hurts.
I am, however, the odd one out. Slicing myself open, letting it all pour out in a nonmusical way… that doesn't make me any less of a loner. I'm just as different. I'll never fit in. I can only be myself, and try to survive as I do it. And I will…
I just wish it didn't hurt.
(A/N): Yeah, depressing, right?