I’ve never been allergic to people, or to things in general. I’ve always loved to look and to listen, to judge and to question: “Where the fuck has he been to say that?”
Talking is hard and takes time.
Being heartbroken is addictive.
I looked for help in every corner of his peace of mind until I realized I didn’t want any. I don’t want to heal. I still want to wake up to that deep cold breath filling my lungs with self-pity. I want to be sure that I’m going to go through at least one little daytime breakdown. One midnight brawl with this acid water that leaves black streaks on the floor.
I love to look into people’s smiles and lie back to them. Dark little demons behind my new lipstick. Eternal drama queen of those Artificial Paradises, Baudelaire knows.
Talking is hard.
At five years old, I was already blushing when the teachers would call out my name for attendance. In French, in English, I fear attention. I get anxious when I talk. I never say a word to my psychologist. I never speak when I’m lying next to him. I don’t want people to think about my name. I was born with severe exulansis 
 Exulansis: n. the tendency to give up trying to talk about an experience because people are unable to relate to it—whether through envy or pity or simple foreignness—which allows it to drift away from the rest of your life story, until the memory itself feels out of place, almost mythical, wandering restlessly in the fog, no longer even looking for a place to land. (Dictionary of Obscure Sorrow)