I am at the center of my world.
I should be at the center of your world.
I should be at the center of your world.
I should be at the center of your world.
At the center of your world. Me. Delightful.
You are not at the center of mine. No, no, no, NO— I am at the center of my world. Me. Me and Me and Me and Me and Me and Me—
It does not matter why I am there. If you love me. If you hate me. As long as I am there. The stronger you feel about me, the more I am there. Feasting on you. Consuming your mind and consuming your soul: consuming, consuming, consuming.
You look at my pages and you dig your nails into your skin, seething at the thought of me. Seething at the thought that you aren't me. Seething.
You look at my art and you read my words, overcome with rage and love and pity and anger. Oh, how this thing has taken over my life, you will say to yourself. Your finger hovers above an ask box, an unsent DM, a guestbook— all these words you'd like to say but cannot without exposing who you are who hates me so much.
Who loves me so much.
Yes. You, too. Lover waiting in the wings, hopelessly liking and retweeting and reposting and fawning. You think I do not know, that I do not see you, that I have not noticed—
Hah! You are right.
Fawn. Adore. Delight in my existence while I remain blissfully unaware of how you've constructed an identity for me in your mind. Unaware that there is a version of myself that lives only there and who knows nothing of me beyond curated, shallow snapshots of my life.
Aren't you so cute? You are darling when I am at the center of your world.
I am at the center of your world.
I am at the center of your world.
I am at the center of your world.
This world that is only me, myself, and I.