Oh good. I’m not actually dead. I’m still here. I still have a sort of soul.
It’s not going to be enough. It’s never going to be enough. I can’t fuck with people just to have it be a temporary reprieve. It’s stupid. Can we just skip the part where you blame everything on me and walk away? Can we just skip the part where I fall in love with you when I know how it ends?
I’m on a crash course. That’s what this is. It’s not release. It’s not salvation. It’s about getting hurt and hurting. We romanticize it. But we really shouldn’t. The truth of the matter is we are FUCKING broken. And nothing will ever be enough. Ever.
How does one take that? How do you feel okay knowing that this is all there is? Nothing is going to get better. Everything is fake. You are alone. A-L-O-N-E.
It’s all that I know. It’s all I can do. I am going to wake up tomorrow. I’m going to put on a fake fucking smile. I’m going to drive up to Portland. I’m going to work. And you are going to message me. And I’m going to respond. And I’m going to worry that I’ll say the wrong thing and you will realize how off I am. And then you will say “thanks but better not!” And then I’ll be right. And then I’ll cry. And then I’ll brush myself off. And I’ll search again. Wash-rinse-repeat. Forever. Endless loop. Of fucking. And punching. And hating. And loving.
Oh….. the loving…
So here it is folks! Infidelity in all of its horrifying glory. I want you to see the underbelly. The self-loathing. The fear. The not okay. The make me whole. Because you will want to tell yourself something different when you discover it. You are going to say “Well- if I was only more X then he/she wouldn’t have wanted something else.” Even if you don’t admit it out loud.
It’s not true. But not in the sense that you think. It’s not that we adore all your perfect imperfections. It’s that we honestly don’t give a shit. We might have once. But ultimately we don’t anymore. We care only about #1. How to feel okay. How to feel something. Even if it’s pain. You fit in there because you offer constant comfort. A well we can continually drain when we need to. You do it so well.
That’s the truth loves. So when you uncover all of our affairs and untangle all of our lies. And we stand there in front of you and cry. Don’t believe it. We aren’t crying because we feel sorry for what we’ve put you through. We aren’t sorry that we broke your trust. We are crying because our perfect image was shattered. Because we were caught. And now we are going to have to re-adjust. Because we will have to be more careful next time. And because you still don’t see the truth. You still don’t see us.
Just once. I want to hear someone say. “God- you’re a fucking messed up bitch.”
It’s true. I am. Thank you very much.