I'm just a splotch on the wall waiting to be painted over, the slightly ruined textured surface that sticks out enough to annoy you.
The trick is to keep changing who you are so your old self can't keep up with your ever-chameleon ways, except this time with tears and pain instead of shades and colors.
Am I grasping at false hopes, these little bubbles that pop in my mind as the day goes on, of course, no one cares about the self-abandoned person, the one who gave up on themselves?
Why should mere strangers, weighed down with sweet, short nicknames from a lonely user who longs for an unlabeled source of happiness and what brightens others' days while letting theirs sink further into the abyss, care about me?
They can't of course, or at least I'll block them, cut them out of every scene, every poem I wrote thinking of them in some way, I'll shred all of the papers if I think my caring for them would write them off for the worst.
Is this my eventual goodbye, written with hurried presses of worn-out keys, a parody of a prized aesthetic to seem happier than one is.
I'm not quite sure yet, but I do know is that I'll miss them regardless of where I land after I slip off the cliff, into either the calming, crashing blue waves or the unrelenting tough dark dirt.