the lonely is such delicate things
i've been staring at this screen for twenty minutes now trying to figure out how to get out all the words that have bottlenecked themselves between my brain and my fingertips. i don't want to write about love, there has to be more to life than that. but everything else i would write down right now is a facetious escape from how i actually feel. it's just another way to avoid feeling anything by channeling my energy into some political outburst.
what i really feel. what do i really feel? i think i'm the shittiest person to be in a relationship with because i'm so misanthropic and i get so fucking sick of people. i stop caring the second i get hurt because generally i don't waste my time on people who would make me feel like shit. i date people that are so far from what i'm interested in because it's easy and it keeps me from being hurt because they are not ever the kind of people who would truly be able to know me, and then i get upset and dramatic when they decide they don't want me in their lives anymore even though i kicked them out of mine first.
sometimes i wonder if maybe you destroyed my ability to let anyone in. because i let you know all of me, all the shittiest, grittiest parts of me, and it took you six years to tell me you loved me the same way i love you, and by the time you said it it was too fucking late. even though i still love you, even though i still think about you, even though i can't imagine anyone more right for me than you. the damage was done by the time you said it, it took you too long, i still don't believe that anyone is capable of loving all of me. so i choose people that i know won't be able to because at least then i'm not risking anything, at least i'm not vulnerable to their disgust with me because i go into it expecting it.
i am so tired of going through this. the second i attach myself to someone else i feel caged and unstable, i want to fuck everything up and watch it burn or throw myself into oncoming traffic just to escape it all.
i'm stable now, right? i haven't been to therapy in years, my mind is healthy, right?
if that's true then why do i still think about killing myself on a daily basis? why do i keep wishing for some freak accident to happen that takes the decision out of my hands?
why am i so incapable of being happy with what i have?