I didn't sleep last night. I waited for your words to gut me open. Sink in. Stick the landing like they should.
You know the ugliest parts of me, my darkest secrets--moreso and differently than anyone else.
You're an asshole. You're such a hypocrite. You're a fucking hypocrite with your self-righteous, moral compass bullshit.And then you go around saying the most fucked up things to hurt people.
I didn't feel anything when you said it. Not right away. It was too much to process. I had to concentrate all of my energy on not doing something stupid--like, unbuckling my seat-belt and attempting a tuck and roll off the freeway. But right now, the feeling in my chest is like I got sucker punched and I'm struggling to breathe.
I take some sips of water. I don't let myself cry. Crying solves nothing. I want the ugliness of it all to go away. I want to shrink myself until I disappear.
You're right. You're absolutely right about everything.
And I'd rather you think me a manipulative dick who tests the limits of our friendship. Much better than the truth. That I'm a child starved for your attention and affection and I'll say mean things to provoke you so that you'll notice me. Pathetic. Fucking pathetic. At least when you think I'm a dick, I'm not nearly as sad.
I don't know what to do. This isn't healthy anymore. I don't remember if we were always like this or if it has escalated over time. I don't know if I want to do this anymore because it's really fucking hard. It'd be so much easier at this point to just cash in our chips and go home. Cut our losses. Accept that this won't work. Accept that we became too close, too fast and now insecurities and mistrust has sunk in on both sides.
That time you read through my messages and found those really awful texts, I had never been so ashamed of myself (and I've done some really shady, shameful things in my lifetime). Saying those things about you to other people is, in all honesty, one of my biggest regrets in life that I wish I could change. I swore to myself that I would never hurt you like that again, that I'd never make you feel like that again. Which I guess I failed to honor.
I feel like you've never forgiven me for it--not really, anyway. That it's a hurt you're reminded of when you see me. And that's why everything I say feels poisoned.Maybe that's why you think I hate you and have something against you when it's the complete opposite.
I wonder how many times I can offer you I love you's and I'm sorry's before they become empty gestures. I never wanted to live the gesture life with you. I hope you know that I'm sincere.
I like to tell myself that I'd be fine if we weren't friends anymore, if you decided to one day cut me out of your life for one reason or another--decided that you'd had enough, or woke up one morning realizing what a shitty person I am and that you didn't want me anywhere near you. I'd intellectualize our relationship: Bodies are only within reach so long as you can extend into that space with relative ease. Shit happens.Maybe I'd write a poem or two about you in five years when saying your name wouldn't feel like sticking pin pricks in my heart anymore.