i crack myself up because i am fucking pathetic
I've been calling your name
Each time it feels it's in vain
Maybe it's over
But over is not a word that you know
the difference is: he never wanted to shape me as you did. oh, but you fuck me up, you really do.
it's inexplicable and infuriating the way these memories flit through my head still. they mean nothing to no one but me - because you are all unseeing in your self-absorption (just as i am; i'm hardly being accusatory). can't you see how markedly different we are? you live for the moment while i backpedal hopelessly into a past i cannot share, you being too inebriated in your own specially concocted brew of grief and pride and obstinacy. admit it, i'm beginning to know your kind well: you would sooner prostrate yourself shamelessly than to dwell on your raw feelings as i tend to.
those tiny, fleeting moments in which our eyes meet for a quarter of a second before the inevitable simultaneous glance to the side but too late i've seen the hurt residing there and i feel my heart drop with maddening precision to my stomach because all i ever wanted to do was to make you feel better. every word you said. every lingering expression. every gesture, i still -
and in the simplest of words: yes, maybe i'm only bitter you never gave me the chance to show i could mend you. and in turn, i'll never give you the chance to prove you care (if you fucking do at all). wait, what was i thinking? you're fine. you're perfectly fine.