(no subject)
Why do we give people second chances? Why do we so weakly offer third, fourth and fifth chances? "What tangled skeins we weave." Why, with each passing chance does my heart gape a little more obviously? Why do my tendril-like organs spill out of my heart like snakes, like tears?
I'm so tired of the endless chances I surrender to her. Sometimes I find myself probing and burrowing into her hypothetical psyche for an EXPLANATION-- as if to say, there must be a reason she is the way she is.
There must be some offhanded rationale that would make every bitchy expression she ever shed understandable. But the deeper I so desperately excavate, the more estranged I become. There is nothing-- nothing but my aching questions. I don't have the guts to end our defiled relationship because I'm afraid of the vacancy that would throb inside of me, cutting me every time I thought about her. The thing with scars is that though they're healed bruises, they will forever tatoo your skin. Emblematizing that pain. God. I could smack myself over and over and over again for everytime I thought there was hope for our friendship. For evertime I justified her abruptness, for every glare I played off lightly.
I don't care if her upbringing was crap because I was willing to work with it for 3 fucking years. THREE YEARS OF MY LIFE LOST! But today, she crystallized it-- every negative perception I ever had of her. She gave me reason to hate her. And naturally, she had acquired new cronies in my college absence. New fans to adore and worship her that would eventually hate her.
What is it in hate that burns and causes us to sob and appear vulnerable before the people we think we love? We are made unwilling victims of our hearts.
Screw her. fuck her. she can diiiiieeeeeeeee
fucking cunt.
I'm so tired of the endless chances I surrender to her. Sometimes I find myself probing and burrowing into her hypothetical psyche for an EXPLANATION-- as if to say, there must be a reason she is the way she is.
There must be some offhanded rationale that would make every bitchy expression she ever shed understandable. But the deeper I so desperately excavate, the more estranged I become. There is nothing-- nothing but my aching questions. I don't have the guts to end our defiled relationship because I'm afraid of the vacancy that would throb inside of me, cutting me every time I thought about her. The thing with scars is that though they're healed bruises, they will forever tatoo your skin. Emblematizing that pain. God. I could smack myself over and over and over again for everytime I thought there was hope for our friendship. For evertime I justified her abruptness, for every glare I played off lightly.
I don't care if her upbringing was crap because I was willing to work with it for 3 fucking years. THREE YEARS OF MY LIFE LOST! But today, she crystallized it-- every negative perception I ever had of her. She gave me reason to hate her. And naturally, she had acquired new cronies in my college absence. New fans to adore and worship her that would eventually hate her.
What is it in hate that burns and causes us to sob and appear vulnerable before the people we think we love? We are made unwilling victims of our hearts.
Screw her. fuck her. she can diiiiieeeeeeeee
fucking cunt.