A Wonderful Person
I'm sorry.
I said it and I meant it. I told you I didn't know why I was sorry, but I know now. I knew just minutes after I said it, as we said our goodbyes. I'm sorry for being weak.
What you didn't see was the tears. You didn't know your compliment had such an effect on me. I can't imagine how screwed up a person would have to be to feel hurt by a compliment, but hey, that's me. I have experience in this field. I can turn any happy thought into a pointy, serrated little pain to jab myself in the heart with. It's how I get my jollies.
No, I don't want you to stop. I don't ever want you to stop being you, and saying what's on your mind, and expressing every thought to me that comes into your head, no matter how much it disagrees with my own comfortably familiar self-hatred. I’m just not used to it. This is a new dynamic for me. It’s strange, and a little scary. Give me time to get used to it, and ignore my melodramatic ramblings.
Maybe I'll find out you really do know me, and that somehow, through some miraculous point of circumstance, you manage to love tainted old me anyways. Until then, though, I'll be [dis]content to occasionally satisfy my urges with interjections of assumed unfortunate realties.
I know what I need; a cookie.
I said it and I meant it. I told you I didn't know why I was sorry, but I know now. I knew just minutes after I said it, as we said our goodbyes. I'm sorry for being weak.
What you didn't see was the tears. You didn't know your compliment had such an effect on me. I can't imagine how screwed up a person would have to be to feel hurt by a compliment, but hey, that's me. I have experience in this field. I can turn any happy thought into a pointy, serrated little pain to jab myself in the heart with. It's how I get my jollies.
No, I don't want you to stop. I don't ever want you to stop being you, and saying what's on your mind, and expressing every thought to me that comes into your head, no matter how much it disagrees with my own comfortably familiar self-hatred. I’m just not used to it. This is a new dynamic for me. It’s strange, and a little scary. Give me time to get used to it, and ignore my melodramatic ramblings.
Maybe I'll find out you really do know me, and that somehow, through some miraculous point of circumstance, you manage to love tainted old me anyways. Until then, though, I'll be [dis]content to occasionally satisfy my urges with interjections of assumed unfortunate realties.
I know what I need; a cookie.