Exhausted

I never want feelings like this to end I don't want to feel alone I don't want to be alone. Yet, being around people makes me sweaty. It makes me self concious, it makes me want to die to say the least. I touch my dark brown hair its getting longer. I want to shave it off. I want to be as ugly as I feel. I'm laying on the sand I see a shadow approach me. It's a small shadow but its there and I don't like it being there. I hate not knowing what it is. I roll over, my face is in the sand, the grains form to my face. I'm not breathing, and I can't help but think if I never let my face up for air and if I just inhaled all of the sand and it filled my lungs up to the brim but I didn't cough it up it just stayed there and turned into wet sand. I wouldn't ever breath and I would die with sand in my lungs. I was born in water, I'll die in sand.

However, I turn over and see a girl. She's hovering above me it reminds me of my mom and I don't like it. She's just staring at me and judging me I can feel it radiating off of her but I don't want to see it. I look away quickly before we make eye contact I'm not good at talking to strangers. I'm not good at talking to anyone for that matter. She doesn't leave I want her to oh god so badly I don't want to see anyone. Especially a judging teenager. I bet she's pretty, I bet she's popular, I bet she's fucked someone, I bet she's confident, I bet she has friends, I bet she doesn't hate her self.

"Hey, you okay?" The dreaded words come out of her mouth at the worst possible time and I don't want to answer. I feel like crying. I feel it my forehead is sweating. I'm sweating.

"Yeah, fine." I answer and my voice didn't crack.

"Want some help up?" No I don't want help up I don't want you to touch me. I want to lay here forever. I don't want your pathetic sympathy, I don't want you to push my bangs back and kiss my forehead telling me everything is going to be okay. You're not my mom I don't want you to act like one. I want to stay here and rot.

"Sure" I see her perfectly manicured hand reach out towards me her nails are puple, a sort of lilac color that sickens me. Her bracelets are stringy and handmade I bet her friends made those for her, she seems to have a bunch of bracelets on and all of her preppy friends decided they needed a sign they were all friends. I count them. There's 7. 7 i hate that number I hate that it has 2 syllables and only has one digit. In 7 years I'll be 23. I'll probably still hate myself. Or I'll be dead. Probably the latter.

She helps me up, pulling me from my sand haven, dragging me from my coffin. I want to collapse back down and pull her with me. No, I don't. We're standing 1 and a half feet from each other and I wish we were further.

"Thanks" I say. I'm polite, I'm good, I'm fine.

"Why were you lying in the sand like that?" Her high pitched voice makes me want to kill myself my ears can't handle it they're ringing. Maybe she thought I was dead. I wonder if she cared, I wonder if she would've called the police, who would've called my mom who would've cried her eyes out and paid 5,000 dollars for a casket and funeral she knows I don't want to have.

"I was lying there because I was just running and I felt tired so I needed a rest."

"But you were face down...?" I hate those assumptions, you want me to finish the sentence? She doesn't care. She's pretending to care. Why am I still talking to her. I begin to walk away into the darkness of the beach. I walk under a volleyball net, I have to bend down a little. Even though I'm only 5'9".