(Not) Going On

You know, it's not a matter of weight. I mean it is also a matter of weight. But it's not "to look cool". Nor to wear nice dresses. Nor to be beautiful. I have been thin, and I wasn't beautiful. God, no.
It's about...not feeling such a shame. So inappropriate. So wrong, always.
I hate opening my mouth. It's just crap getting in and crap getting out.
I hate walking. I feel as if I occupe too much space. I know I occupe too much space around me. I hate being my self, feeling my body. I hate thinking my thoughts. They're dirty, wrong and stupid, just like me.
There's been a time when I thought I was smart. And people used to think that too. Some of them maybe still think that. You know, it's pretty hard trying to forget about your body, desperately hiding into your head, and realizing there isn't enough room there either. Another mistake. Another disappointment. Being stupid is sad. Really. A lot of intelligent people wish they were stupid. They say that intelligence is heavy. That smart people are hardly ever happy. Well, as a stupid I can tell you that being stupid is not easy either. Plus you'll leave with the fear that everybody will find out how irremediably stupid you are and that a smart one will get everything from you. Plus life pretty sucks when you are stupid. You look around, you see things, but cannot link them together. You try, you try so hard to put stuff together, to connect the dots, but they just lay there, so incredibly far from each other, forgotten by everyone and everything else.

I'm tired of living out of the world.
And yeah, being the fat one, the one that is never appropriate, never right, never fine, never pleasant, never enjoyable, never funny, never pretty, never anything good, doesn't help.
I don't want to be a freak anymore.
I don't I don't I don't.
I wish so much I were good at something, but I'm not.
I wish so much I was able to kill my self. But doesn't matter how apparently ardently I want it.
I keep stopping.

I wish so much I could go on.