inconsequential bullshit

I have this urge to get incredibly drunk. I’m going to be one scarred motherfucker; I’ve already accepted it. I just hate the fact that anyone thinks they have the right to say something about it. Since when did you give a shit, suddenly? You weren’t there when I was doing it, were you? Holding my fucking hand? No, that’s right. People shy away and look at me like I’m fucking insane, and maybe I am a little. But there sure the fuck was no one there to hold my hand. No one is ever there. All these ridiculous proclamations of love and caring and no one was there. No one was fucking there.

And they wonder why I call them liars? Why I don’t trust anyone? I think it is blatantly clear now. I hope they see every fucking line and know that when I did it I was thinking of them and their fucking worthless words, their coddling and handholding and all those secrets in the dark. I hope you know. I hope you know and I hope it hurts you far worse than it ever did me. Every line is my revenge. That quarter-inch wide, angry red scar was for you. I hate you for breaking me. I hate you for taking me out of the water for a second just to watch me drown all over. I blame you. I don’t care if it’s irrational, I don’t care if it’s unfair. I blame you.

And I hate me for being stupid enough to believe everything you said. I knew it was a mistake, the worst kind of trap, and now that I’m back and I’ve gnawed a leg off, I get to remember for whatever time I’ve got left—that I choose to give myself—that I was as useless and stupid as everyone else is and fell for it. Your idea of heroics is sickening. It’s wrong and cruel. As far as I am concerned, you left a dying person to die. There was nothing valiant about it.

I wouldn’t of left you. I swear to god if our places were reversed, I wouldn’t of left you. No matter what. Even now I can’t laugh at your suffering. I hurt for you; I can’t help it. That one night you did stay with me. The sad part is, it’s the only time someone ever did.

A mark against.

I don’t think it’s supposed to hurt to be what you are. If it does, you must be forcing something.

Work is shit; my promotion is more of an irritant than anything else, making me sick to my stomach and rattling my nerves until I leave my shift so exhausted that I don’t have enough energy to even have a life. Not that I have the time or anything, or that there’s much to be had.

Everything has gone wrong, it seems. The good that’s happened has been bludgeoned by bad, until it has all become a sickening, worthless pulp. It doesn’t matter that it happened now. I hurt. It’s as though there is this hole in my chest, wide and gaping. It’s actually like a stabbing pain when I think about it, like having something torn out and taken. And everything’s suicide and endings and not having to think about anything anymore. I was stupid to think anyone would do something for me. Their help is nothing but fumblings; there is no certainty to it, no strength of will in their grip. Faltering and sweaty and too fucking uncertain and destined to fail every damn time because they don’t understand it. This isn’t a phase; I won’t grow out of it. I’ve wanted to die since I can remember. I’ve wanted to cut myself out of this mess since the beginning. And now I’m 20 and stupider and I can’t believe I’ve suffered myself this long. I hate being myself, I hate who I am. I am a failure and I’m not fit to be here and staying around is nothing but a mistake and more proof of my own idiocy. 

Every day I live is another mark etched into a wall; a scratch that amplifies my own incompetence.