Come on, skinny love, just last the year.

Oh I wish I was thinner or prettier or better or cleverer.

Noone notices me properly in the right way.

Some people do, sometimes. P and Doll did.

Enough of this whining. Enough.

He said the first time he met me he thought I was weird and probably stupid because I said nothing and because I looked perpetually terrified. Only I wasn't, I think he thinks I was because I told him this subsequently. I don't think I was. But I know people can't like what you don't show them; they aren't going to know you're interesting if you never are.

Your crepe stomach is dwindling and I adore you still darling. Or do I? I never adored you because of it, but I do want to hold you safe from all those things. Strange that I like in you what I detest in myself, isn't it. I could stand and stare at you protected by the glass, but there's nothing more to say to you so please don't ever ask.

Have we ran out of things, Little Bird? You and I are so different and I worry that we've separated because, maybe, I adore you too much. I don't tell you my problems and I must. I only tell you the solvable ones, nothing else. I worry you might hate me otherwise though I know really you wouldn't.

I am always silent when I'm happy or furious. When I'm happy I see no need to say so. When I'm furious I don't know where to start and I feel like I'm wrong.

I don't even know what to write anymore, I am so bored of it all. Blah blah blah, I like someone, they don't like me, or they do but not enough, that's the more frequent case, for acting, for life, for whatever. I'm tired of it.