(no subject)
February was beautiful. Everything was coming together and we were falling into place. Idyllic and eighteen and in love for the first time. I ran away from everything with him. He wasn't right for me, and I wasn't right for him, but it didn't matter then. All that fucking, rationalization. Just a manipulation of reasons. A consciousness altering phenomenon, really. The hormones and the digression of identity and the times I was never more alone than when I was with him. Always hiding away from me, especially me. I only hurt him because I was the first person in so long that he couldn't shut out. I knew he always resented that. He resented January, too. Everything is still floating around on cinema air.
Paper journal thrown out into the hallway. Like a big, fucking slap. With his vocal chords rising and threats to physically remove me from his room. More claims about how what he read proved that I was the one who destroyed everything, and anything that was left. Conveniently forgetting his grave from the summer. He said he just didn't know what to say, then. He never will. I never listen, he says. No, I don't listen when you ask me to leave when there's so much to say. I gave him smeared black ink and lined paper, and he threw it out into the hallway. I gave him all of the hurt that stagnanted for almost three months. Five point five pages of how very fucking tragic he's made me feel. It wasn't the journal that he threw out, though. It was that symbolic moment you can identify so well in movies. It was me. I'm the journal with the messy handwriting and hurt and everything he wants to avoid.
Well, darling. FUCK YOU. You were never disposable to me.