You know, I don’t want to write anything tonight, but I’m doing it anyway. Why? Because I’m pissed. And I don’t have the discipline to do better things or the stomach to do worse things, so it comes down to this, always this–spilling words on a page, spewing my rage, throwing a silent temper tantrum until I can fucking pretend again that everything’s okay. Fine. Whatever. Do anything it takes, as long as it’s passive-aggressive and full of self-pity. God, I make myself sick.
I get to this place every now and then when I’m furious. Just fucking…livid. And you know why? It’s because people are shit. They lie, and they hurt you, and you find yourself stupid enough to care about them again and again. I should know better by now. Do I learn? Never. Of course not. If I ever learned how to quit being a dramatic bitch and actually do something with myself, they would be all out of fun. It’s more exciting when they hold me just near the surface, close enough to get in a gasp just before pushing me under again until my lungs burn and almost collapse.
I want to throw things, I want to break them. I want my knife, and by the time I go to bed I’ll probably have given myself a few new scars. Who the fuck cares? Obviously, I don’t. I can’t. See, I’m too busy feeling everyone else’s shit that I can’t feel anything for myself anymore. Happy? I bet you don’t give a damn, and that’s perfectly fine because neither do I. They say things get better but I don’t believe it. Not right now. Not when it hurts this much to just fucking wish you could feel something for someone else. I wonder why I can’t get a handle on my eating disorder, my depression, my anxiety, my cutting. Why? Well because it’s the only way I can hurt you, you know. I can’t say that I’m tired of bearing your burdens, of being trampled, of martyring myself for your freedom, but I’ll be damned if I won’t sabotage every single path to my happiness just to keep you feeling guilty. It’s a sick trick, isn’t it?
Of course, people say what they like. They say they care. They’ll be there for me. I don’t ever believe them. You say give them a chance and I say no fucking way in hell. It’s not gonna happen. I have no reason to trust people, no reason to believe that the pain of opening up is worth it. I feel enough pain, stress, tension, anger, from all of you already. No need to let you shred me apart even more. So call this a rant, a bitter pity party. I don’t give a shit. Leave me alone because that’s what you’ll do anyway, sever yourself from someone who takes your shit. Keep on with your emptied heart, and I’ll stay here full of your feelings, inflated so full of your own air that there’s no room for me to breathe.
See the thing is, I always feel like this underneath, on the inside. I have a habit of cutting people out of my life, severing ties. You could say I give them a trial period, and then sooner or later time’s up. Not true. See, I still feel you. I still feel your soul there, swallowing mine, costing me my sanity. You are a parasite and I am the host for your worries and your cares and your stress and your fears. I am the rotten pile of dirty laundry that you bleach out of your system, shove behind the closet door, let her rot until I need her again. Hug me all you want but you won’t get what you’re looking for. You won’t see me being your bitch forever. I won’t be well-behaved, I will make you angry, I won’t let you tie me down for the rest of my life. I might be cutting the ropes, but at least I won’t be hanging from one. Unless, of course, it’s the only way to finish it.
Fed Up and Chewed Out,