Hurt

I hurt

You hurt

I hurt

You

Hurt

Me

You

Hurt me

I hurt

You hurt

I hurt you

You hurt me

We hurt

We don’t talk

 

 

 

Fight, goddamn it. Fight.

Fight through your pain and hurt feelings and bruised ego and all that’s left of your self-preservation.

Against all odds, because it hurts, exactly because it hurts. Because I want you to think it’s worth it.

 

But it isn’t. Is it. Self-preservation. Hurt feelings. Me me me me. Me first.

You hurt

You hurt me

I hurt

I hurt you

We hurt

We don’t talk

 

And still

 

I am here, aren’t I

 

I had such high hopes

Not just for now

But for what we could be

 

Yes, it was always precarious knife edge instable tiptoeing

I realised, shit, we are both pretty fragile, yes, I even said, handle with care…

We didn’t. Went in like a bulldozer. You wanted no stones left unturned.

So here. All my warts and worms. I was honest, from the get go. All there. Trembling. Even when I thought, that just might do it, and you’ll walk away, and you didn’t, no, you told me heady things first…

But couldn’t handle it in the end, after all, could you.

Why the fuck ask for it then.

Make me vulnerable and open and then…

Walk away. Blaming me.

Stew in your hurt, add it to mine, make me feel shittier.

That’s an accomplishment, so, you know, bravo.

 

I would like to say, you’re overreacting. Really. But you’d just take it as an insult even more.

I would like us to talk it through, so probably saying that you’re overreacting would not be conductive.

 

I tried to call, and you didn’t answer.

 

Again.

 

Fuck you, then.

Fuck you, whoever may, because I won’t ever again.

 

We went from forever, maybe, to never again, in what, 90 days? 30?

Who’s counting.

Days are a meaningless measurement when you spend hours on end talking, then silence for 4 days.

 

You will not succeed. I could really blame myself, like you’re blaming me. I could blame myself even more, given my track record of people pleasing and apportioning all blame on me, always.

But no. Not this time. Fuck it.

I am here, goddamn it.

I messaged, I called, I flew here.

I messaged, I called. Again. No answer.

 

So then. Fine. You’re too hurt, and unwilling to talk it through.

It sucks.

But, I’m sick of running after people and mopping up and always lying down and bending over backwards.

It’s not worth it.

There.

I said it.

 

 

My phone just chimed, reminding me of tomorrow.

It needn’t have bothered.

I know it already.

It’s not the beginning.

 

Of course, I said it.

I’m sorry.

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