dream of pretty insects

I feel so unworthy, I feel in need, incapable of love, yet constantly yearning for it.  A hug of epic proportions that folds into itself onto the bed and into sex.  I’m an animal, very tame, domesticated, very much, but disgusting, disgusted, with myself, unshaven most times, sometimes filthy with the smell of my own sweat, uncaring enough of my life to take a shower twice or more a week.  I reek of loneliness and desperation, I hold no myths of my greatness, perhaps I do blow my lack thereof into mythic proportions, it’s not up to me.  If everyone wanted a piece of me, I’d feel secure.  They don’t.  I feel insecure.  I am a train wreck of a human being, unwilling to change for the fear of failure.  I feel I know I would fail.  I feel failure is inevitable.  I’m stuck in my skin, my skin is unfit for me, I just wish I were dead so my skin and worries can fade into the swamps.