(no subject)
Irony, sweet irony.
A couple days ago I was in disbelief that I hadn't fucked up.
Disbelief was the right emotion - or was it? Because, really, how much of this is my fault? How much will I put up with, or rather how much CAN I put up with?
There were low blows dealt all around, and words like some of those said are only ever said to hurt, so congratulations.
I'm not gonna say I understand.
I don't.
I'm not gonna say you're not over-reacting.
You are.
I'm not going to even try and talk to you, unless you come to me first. I don't want another fucking dial tone in my ear after an "I love you" - even after all this bullshit [and it IS bullshit], I fucking love you more than you know.
I'm not expecting you to return it. You didn't the last 5 times I said it, why should now be any different? [The difference will be that you can't leave silence in words.]
I'm sick of this bullshit. I thought about breaking edge, but I spent the money I would have spent on beer tonight on postage, and mailed you something to tell you how I felt, because I doubt that you'll want to talk to me after reading this.
Then I went and had a cigarette anyways.
Today is the day, if there's going to be one, to break edge.
So I did.
And I probably will again before the night, the morning, is out.
It IS my body, but the heart is yours, broken and bruised as it is. Take it or leave it.
I wouldn't blame you if you left it.
Call me when - if - you want to talk. I'm not slating myself for rejection again.
[We both know I probably will. Give it time, and I'll become so heartsick I have to.]
This is all still bullshit.
I hope you read this and realize exactly what your words and lack thereof have inflicted.
I'll still stay close to you, too, if you want it. You know that.
Be glad I wrote the letter at 5 AM and not now. I can assure you the tone would be brutally different.
FUCK 11:11.
Everyone not involved in this: if I'm gone for a couple days, don't worry; I'm not dead [yet]. I'm just lurking in avoidance of a bad situation that I'm not so sure I put myself in.
It's just all gone to hell.
A couple days ago I was in disbelief that I hadn't fucked up.
Disbelief was the right emotion - or was it? Because, really, how much of this is my fault? How much will I put up with, or rather how much CAN I put up with?
There were low blows dealt all around, and words like some of those said are only ever said to hurt, so congratulations.
I'm not gonna say I understand.
I don't.
I'm not gonna say you're not over-reacting.
You are.
I'm not going to even try and talk to you, unless you come to me first. I don't want another fucking dial tone in my ear after an "I love you" - even after all this bullshit [and it IS bullshit], I fucking love you more than you know.
I'm not expecting you to return it. You didn't the last 5 times I said it, why should now be any different? [The difference will be that you can't leave silence in words.]
I'm sick of this bullshit. I thought about breaking edge, but I spent the money I would have spent on beer tonight on postage, and mailed you something to tell you how I felt, because I doubt that you'll want to talk to me after reading this.
Then I went and had a cigarette anyways.
Today is the day, if there's going to be one, to break edge.
So I did.
And I probably will again before the night, the morning, is out.
It IS my body, but the heart is yours, broken and bruised as it is. Take it or leave it.
I wouldn't blame you if you left it.
Call me when - if - you want to talk. I'm not slating myself for rejection again.
[We both know I probably will. Give it time, and I'll become so heartsick I have to.]
This is all still bullshit.
I hope you read this and realize exactly what your words and lack thereof have inflicted.
I'll still stay close to you, too, if you want it. You know that.
Be glad I wrote the letter at 5 AM and not now. I can assure you the tone would be brutally different.
FUCK 11:11.
Everyone not involved in this: if I'm gone for a couple days, don't worry; I'm not dead [yet]. I'm just lurking in avoidance of a bad situation that I'm not so sure I put myself in.
It's just all gone to hell.