Your skin is hot, tight and the jeans you're wearing chaff your legs. Your mum bought them for you two years ago when you were uncertain and embarrassed and out of your fucking mind. You still fit into them. That would have made you proud a few months ago but you've let go of that anorexic stage. No one helped you. You should be proud but you're ashamed and no one really cares.

Your skin is hot – it's practically blazing and your chest is even more volatile. Inside your torso is a globe of anger, the kind where everything is murky and there's no certainty in what you're seeing except the feeling of rage. That's clear. Your fingers are frozen at an awkward looking angle. Your body doesn't twitch but you are shaking. It's anger you remind yourself. You're angry and you know you're really, really scared but the fury is a nice blanket from the chill.

It smothers all feelings and curls into a defensive mask and cape. The wistful image of you ripping into the room with the chair you're sitting on is a dream that's clearer to see than reality. The words of your parents aren't comforting.

There's patronizing, sighs and slightly wayward resignation you know you'd be feeling if your child was in this state. Hate them, that's what you're thinking. It's better to hate them then let them hurt you. These words are supposed to comfort and build your shield up but it's completely useless when the words come out.

Not good enough. That's not good enough. You're not good enough. Your father was never there when you grew up, he never supported you. You hate him. His opinion doesn't matter. You're remembering this is what bullies do. They put down people to make themselves feel better about their insecurities. You're way past simple insecurities. You're at the suicidal fantasies stage now. And your father's winning at pulling the fantasy into reality.

His words claw at you even though they shouldn't. He's like a sperm donor, provided the semen and nothing else. He got to parade a teenage daughter and her few awards around but when did he ever support you emotionally? Never. He doesn't matter. His words still hurt. You hate him. Hate. Rage. Fury. Weakness.

Your mum tells him to be quiet but she says it tiredly and really you know she's meek. Even though they've been apart for almost a decade she's still sees him as some grand power with great charisma. She used to say he's an arsehole but that's because he's rich and womanizing.

Daddy issues. You see that on TV. Going for older men in a sexual manner. Oh yeah. That'll be me in a few years. Then you remember two years ago when you wore super short skirts and did everything up to look like a slut. You remember dismissing boys your age and looking at your teachers wondering... what if…

You're such a fuck up. The coverlet of anger shifts to its true identity. That fear and you run. You run onto the road.

Any car that comes would probably be driving too slowly to hurt you. They can probably stop before hitting you but you know about road rage. Hope. Even if they don't run you over they can hit you with words. You need something from a stranger.

You need abuse. The abuse of a stranger who has no right to judge you is needed, you lust for it. The desire to cover up and overwhelm the worthlessness your disconnected father placed inside you with a simple statement.

Your father stays inside the restaurant. He's laughing. You can hear it. You're crying and your mum can see it as she comes out. She looks harried. Not concerned or worried but haggard and blameless.

You feel everything at once, the embarrassment, the shame, the tiny flame of disgust for your parents and this hopeless need to know if there is any end to the feelings.

There are people out this late and they walk past your mess and they're walking, talking and laughing. They're out for a good time and your bend and crouch on the floor. You're mum has your arm and she's trying to tug you back onto the footpath but you're determined to clutch at your hair, face and that ugly, ugly feeling that says there's no point.