August 24th
Is she quick on her feet?
Is she graceful and sweet?
Bet she’s funnier than I am, and you know, I wouldn’t be surprised if you wanted her just because it proved me wrong for once, anyways. I feel like closing up, crawling under the covers, clutching my little hands to my chest and never, never speaking again. I don’t want to say a word, out of fear that, should I attempt to speak, the only thing that would flow from me is crying. Shuddering, shaking, gasping crying and I’d look ridiculous, cringing like a beaten dog. And oh, my heart can’t stand the sorrow. I just don’t know.
I keep staring at the wall where a fading Polaroid still hangs, a picture of me and you, and we were happy. I can’t look away and I could never throw that picture away. I’ve never seen either of us smile so wide. It seems like such a long time ago, such a distant feeling, but the taste is still bitter and the sting is still just about as inconspicuous as a knife in my ribs. I’m so tired of hearing sappy love songs on the radio and relating them to us. I’m so tired of my heart sinking every time I see your face. I’m almost tired of being human.
I wasn’t always this way, do you remember? Before the resentful cynic, there was the bright and cheerful optimist, hopelessly romantic, ever-unconditional. But every time you left, you left her beaten and broken, and she withered and died away and was scattered across the wicked fen. You fucked up my life, plainly stated, you fucked up every good thing that has ever come my way, every good thing that could have been, every good thing that should have been. I spent so long putting you above everything else that I’ve forgotten what it’s like to care about me. I don’t know any different. I’m just as worthless and pathetic as you said I was, I know. It’s okay. It shows. It shows in the way I hide my eyes, and can’t hold a stare. It shows in the way I bite my lip, and keep my hands in fists. In my broken smile, in my exhausted stance, it shows just how badly beaten I really am. Sometimes I can fake confidence and independence but that’s such a badly exaggerated, thin disguise that it makes me sick. I should hate you. I should hate you more than anything but I don’t.
It’s your birthday today. Happy birthday, I love you more than air.
