short story

God, I don't know whats wrong with me. I stare at a blank page in front of me, my pen twirled in my hand as i wonder, "What is wrong with me?" That sentence is trapped in my brain on loop. I want to tell him; I want him to know i exist, but if I even try to start a mere conversation with him, the words get stuck in my throat like a piece of gum refusing to be shoved down. I write to him a lot, but even after i try to write something normal, it just becomes a page full of word vomit, and i cant help but feel the same as the page because no matter how hard it tries to be perfect, it'll just get tossed away. What was wrong with it? It was perfect, but it wasn't good enough. Maybe that's what's wrong with me-I'll never be good enough for him. so now i stare at the tear-stained page in front of me, knowing it will never, ever be good enough.