Dear you,
“Don’t wanna think about it; I’m frickin
tired of getting sick about it. Now stand back up and be a man about it, and
fight for something, fight for something.”
-Mariana’s Trench
lyrics
It’s been a long time, and that doesn’t sadden me.
People have asked me if I miss you, and the answer is,
frankly, no. I’ve told you that. Part of me hates to admit it, but I don’t,
really. I’m sorry to be so mean. I’m so sorry to be so frank. I’m sorry to be
so harsh. I’m sorry to be so rude.
Maybe you’ve rubbed off on me.
I don’t know. I’m hurt. Really hurt, actually. And I’ve told
you that, too. I’ve told you that a lot. But you never cared. You haven’t ever
cared. And you still don’t.
What happened to you? Why don’t you care? Did you ever care?
I’m sick of this, but my heart is really just broken. In a million pieces;
broken. A lot of people have hurt me; a lot of people have sickened me; a lot
of people have chipped at my heart; a lot of people have even wrung my heart.
But you’re the only one who has broken it. I’ve never been angry at another
person, truly, except for you. I get ticked off at other people, and I might
cuss them out. I might rant about them to Mom. I might stop talking to them.
But no one has ever broken my heart so badly that I am angry.
I don’t get angry like you get angry. I don’t throw things.
I don’t hurt people. I don’t scream and yell. I don’t take revenge. I hold it
inside, and let it beat me, over and over. I taste it again and again. I cry
about it at 3 AM. And if I’m feeling brave, I might sling some bitter sarcasm
at you. I just might.
That’s what all those texts were about last week.
My anger towards you is bitter. It hurts me to be this
angry. But I’m not angry for myself. Sure, I’m angry for all the ways you hurt
me. I’m angry about all the things you said. I’m angry that I was hurting so
badly and you never helped me. I’m angry that you were supposed to be the
person to hold my hand, and you never did. I’m angry that I tried to scream for
you to help me, and you didn’t. I’m angry that I begged you to change, and you told
me you were already good enough. I’m angry that you’ve eliminated so much of
the beauty in me. I’m angry that you’ve woven your poison into even the
smallest elements of my life.
But that’s not the deep bitterness I feel towards you. The
deep bitterness isn’t rooted in my personal pain. It’s rooted in my empathy. I hurt
for the people you’ve ruined. I hurt for the helpless people you’ve sabotaged.
I ache and burn for them. I’ve watched people sob because of you. I’ve watched
people stare blankly into space, feeling the anguish of the pain you’ve caused.
And I’ve watched you drive that knife into the wound, further and further, as
if you don’t realize how much it hurts.
Some days I think you know exactly how much it hurts, but
you don’t care.
I don’t knowww. I don’t understand your head. Some days you
act like you might possibly care, and then you rip open the wounds again with
your actions. Ugh. I want to believe you care. I want to believe that you’re
going to make it all better, like you say. I want to believe you aren’t a
complete butthole.
But I just can’t. And that hurts so badly. I hate the truth;
I hate what you’ve done; I hate what you’re doing. And I hate that I cannot do
anything about it.
My anger is a deep sadness. It’s pain. Does it make you
happy that you make other people feel like this? Do you think it’s an
unfortunate but unavoidable side-effect? What do you think? Why are you like this? Please tell me. Please tell
us. Please help us understand. I can’t trust you anymore, because trusting you
always ends up breaking my heart. But I want to understand why. And I don’t
want you to give me the BS you’ve been giving everybody. I want to know the
truth. Why are you who you are? Why are you like this? Your answers to those
questions are lies. And I want to know the truth.
I wish I could see you like God sees you; in all honesty,
truth; naked. I wish I could see your soul laid bare. I wish I could see all
the scars and lies and ugly weeds, exposed. I wish I could see the naked truth,
because then I would understand. I need to see your naked soul. I don’t think
you even know the naked truth anymore. You only know your fabrications and
quixotic hopes and fake promises. That’s all I’ve known, too. But if we could
all see, then maybe we could all figure this out.
A lot of girls sit around and cry because some boy has
broken their heart. They call him a butthole because maybe he cheated on them.
Maybe they hate that boy because he likes someone else; maybe they hate him
because he won’t talk to them; maybe they hate him because he plays hard to
get. That’s what all my friends are dealing with. And then there’s me, and I’m
dealing with not some boy, but you; and it feels so awkward. Because no one
understands. No one has the capability to understand, because they aren’t
facing the same issue. Or maybe they think they understand, but they see this
kind of thing all the time. They don’t care. Maybe….this kind of pain is so
rampant in our society that people cheapen it. It’s so common that no one cares
anymore. But that’s the most dangerous part. Because it’s so common, people
think it isn’t a big deal. And because they thing it isn’t a big deal, they
repeat it. And they don’t care about the people they break in the process.
Is that what happened to you? Did this same pain break you
so badly that you stopped caring about other people’s pain?
You know exactly how I feel. Abandoned. Hated. Lost. Broken.
Angry. Bitter. Lonely. You know how I feel, because you went through it. And
now you’re doing it to me.
-
No comments:
Post a Comment