“I’m just going to pretend that not talking to you didn’t bother me.”
That my face doesn’t light up when you text me. That you didn’t f*ck me over and everything was back how it used to be – less than perfect but just good enough.
It’s a lot easier to be mean to you than admit that you've hurt me but that I should still move on.
It’s a lot easier to pretend you’re a horrible f*cking person than admit that it’s partially me, that I contributed to this us not working.
Making you feel bad doesn’t make me feel good. It just makes me feel less. And I’ll do anything to escape this pain. This stomach aching loneliness that consumes me every chance I decide to stop and think, stop and torment myself.
It’s not your fault. In truth it’s mine. I was so quick to try and make this work. Clearly already knowing it won’t but convincing my heart that it just might. A little hope is all you need. Or love, like The Beatles say.
Because I feel like as soon as I let you go, as soon as I let this go, I’ll have nothing. And that scares me.
Being angry is a lot easier than facing stuff and moving on. Less painful. For me. More possibly for you.
Holding on gives me something that I don’t even much need. Something I know I don’t need but can’t seem to live without.
I don’t like being alone. That’s all but that’s completely contradicting everything I believe in because God is always with me.
So I should never even have this feeling.
But here I am once again f*cking sh*t up cause its fun.