AP

Main

I want to be famous. It's a toxic desire of mine. I tell myself again and again that I may succeed where all others fail; that I could be the one to hold up the world on my shoulders.

I need to be loved. Most realistic, most raw. Could you have loved me the way I wanted you to? I'm not even sure I could love someone the way I expected you to. Miracle worker. Partly floating off the ground, centimeters are all I need from you. Please, please put my God to work, give me a reason to praise you, to kneel at the makeshift altar I've constructed from digital wastewater and the tips of the pencils you've chewed.