Have It or Eat It

“The people left in my life are few.

They don’t quite get me but they get to have me.

The people who left traded me in for a story about me – not as good but an easier read.

A story of some witch who had to burn – for safety, for peace, for vindication.

I’m not saying I didn’t falter or curse. I certainly did. Simply not as popularized lore suggests.

The Black Mirror episode pertaining to social ratings dictating living access bodes as fair reference.

What I did was I dared to be wrong, and so I’ve been wronged with exponential returns.

I was wrong not least of all in trusting those friendships and family, and mistrusting the others.

The more I was denied tell of why I was ghosted en masse, the more I projected my desire to know what I had done to apparently spurn so many people by telling them of how they hurt me – at great length and expense. As far as I’ve been told that became my greatest crime – reflecting trespasses as I experienced them, naively thinking they would be heard as I would have liked to hear them and that others, like myself (i thought), would do better if they knew better.

Now, it seems, I should have just left them and journaled. Abandoners are much more popular in current culture than abandonees. Being able to say that I tried doesn’t seem to do much but against me – though it has done a lot in lessons. One of which; how not to try. Another; how to be alone.

Others may not like me but I sure do – another thing counted against me by those looking to do so without being willing to actually look at me. But enough of them and what i think of their thoughts of my thoughts. Those who care are looking and precious, albeit few. A kind of releif from a sort of torture on display – exposure.”

X still spoke to her family and old acquaintances when she wrote this. She had revoked herself from them, since. They could not have her anymore, they wasted and abused her, however out of ignorance. She knew now that her efforts extended to others in the style of her grooming did no good, she could barely do a kindness for herself, she’d rather be dead than desperate like that ever again. She would do all she could to no longer volunteer herself to be sacrificed to the cause of petty scapegoating and false certainty which had spun so many into an apparent mass segregated psychosis, but knew that it would be much harder than making the decision had been. She could not assuredly say that she was capable of being stronger than the code which she ran on. As long as she couldn’t find a way to die, she’d have to try. Trying, she supposed, was a preferable torture to ceding to the insanity she’d been so subjected to.