Same old empty feeling

I don’t know
why you still look at me
like I am made of glass
like you could shatter everything
when you call me an ass.
Sure, I am shameless,
insensitive
an isolationist
a loner.
My mind was never beauty,
my soul not gold
My heart not warming,
or caring
My character surely not bold
my wisdom not old,
or proven
coherent or consistent.
I am a crumbling wildcard
in a dissatisfying world.
I am hell
this is real, I am sure
and you have the audacity to talk to me,
because you think there is more buried underneath,
an uncorrupt beauty hidden behind
my hurtful words
or the decaying flesh of my rotting body.
Turn around.
There isn’t.
(Stay.)