For all the companionship somethings promise you, it turns out you're essentially, inherently, undeniably alone. There IS no one.
For all the times you've written and thought about it, there's still this pull, some sort of an morbid fascination about that ugly fact.
Or maybe it's beautiful, loneliness. The stripped-clean kind, free of frills, basic. Elementary solitude.
Failure at relationships. Clinging on. Neediness.
What words would you choose to describe your reality?
In what would you deny?
The world does not need to know your secrets, the truth about you. So you shroud it in words that are pretty, complex and winding. Hoping and not hoping they'll get through to where they're aimed. You write in metaphors and verses, in vague and hollow forms. To keep the away from what it's really like, to dress it up as fiction, to shield the fact that really, everything is so fucked up.