display | more...
I'm angry, and tired, and sad, and I just don't want to deal with it right now, so fuck off.

I don't want to look at you, or talk to you, or be with you, or know you, and I certainly don't want to need you to be who you were when it mattered. I don't want to run into you on the street, and have an awkward moment of nothing to say. I don't want you to worry about me, because there isn't anything you can say or do that we haven't already tried. I don't want YOU. I don't want to be irritated, because it is as much my fault as it is yours (or at least that is what I keep telling myself so I will stop blaming you). I don't want to care, but I do, and I don't want to die knowing that I cared too much, or not enough, or not the ways you needed me to, because it doesn't matter any more. I dont' want it to matter in five years, or five minutes, or five seconds, that you have become what I asked you never to be.
A nightmare.
I don't want to go places with people that we both know, knowing that you are going to be a topic at some point, and I don't want everyone to tread lightly in my presence (that lacks the honesty that is the only thing I will ever ask for).I hate the fact that you were such a big thing, and that you didn't know it, or that you did, and I got blown off, because frankly it hurts.(I got the bum end of the deal). I hate the fact that there was such a gross misinterpretation of the situation at some point, and that You were probably responsible, and that I was naive enough to think otherwise.

Having said all that, I don't hate you. I just don't respect you as much as I used to. I used to think you were the greatest person on two legs, and admire your intellegence, and wonder at the things you have accomplished in your few years of life. I used to lie awake at night thinking about you, and wishing you the best in life. . . (I still pray for you. I still hope that you will finish fighting your own nightmares, and find what it is you are looking for.) I still think you are in the wrong. I am bitter, and I just don't want to deal with it, or you right now.

I don't have to send this to you, or post it, or tell you how I feel, because someday you will read this. . . and you won't ever know who it was from, or what it was about, and you won't know that it is to you, and for you.The last thing You'll be getting from me. You won't know, but you'll recognize enough of what I have written to know that no matter who it is from, or for, it is talking straight to your heart. There is enough of the truth here.

I imagine that when/if you do read this, you will find it incredibly enlightening, and you will probably have some halfbaked trip into guilt, so right now I am going to tell you that this isn't about you any more. You might want to call me, and ask if I ever wrote something like this, or you might wimp out at even that, and email me. You might want that. . . but I doubt you will do anything. You would rather have that guilt remain unconfirmed so you don't have to deal with it either.

I think everyone has one of these sometimes.
That ex that you loved too much, the one that still wanted to still be friends. The one who wanted to hang out all the time, and you had to fight down your feelings, choke down the rising tears when you watched her cry, try not to hold on too long when she hugged you just as a friend.

The one that haunted your dreams night after night, long months after you broke up. You still tell each other "I love you", but you know she doesn't mean it the same way that you do. Or does she? Sometimes it's impossible to tell. Sometimes, when she leans in to whisper something in your ear, she lingers, staring a few seconds too long at your eyes, or your mouth.. like she wanted to.. kiss you?

But she convinced you, finally, that you were never going to be more than friends. You, finally believed her. Things got easier, the tensions relented for a while. Until the next week, when she says she needs a good fuck. Until later that night you find out she meant you.

But she didn't mean for you to fall all over again. Not that you could help it, or that you wanted to. There was something intangible about her insanity that made you tell her one night in the car you were retarded for her.

No, there came a point where being there for her all the time and not getting a moment in return. A moment when I snapped, something broke inside. I couldn't tell her that I didn't want to deal with it anymore.

Slowly, we've drifted apart. I doubt she considers me her best friend anymore. Sometimes, it's depressing. Most of the time, I realize that it could be worse.
Knowing she couldn't help it makes it easier.maybe I'll email her..

Log in or register to write something here or to contact authors.