I know what is happening. You say you love me, but you’re getting sick of seeing me every day. You say you love me, but you don’t want to see me today. You won’t want to see me tomorrow. You didn’t want to see me yesterday.
Someday you won’t want to see me anymore. God, I really thought this was going to be different. God, I knew I shouldn’t have done this again. It took longer this time, but I should have known that no one loves me as much as I love them. No one wants to be with me as much as I want to be with them.
But, I should thank you, because now I can write again. I write to make myself interesting so that people like you will like me.
Let me explain this to you.
Beautiful people like you – people who theorize or teach or box or play semi-pro women’s football – they see me as a novelty. I sound like I am smart and my smartness makes you see past how incredibly unimportant I am and for a moment I am worthy of you.
But then you get to know me and you realize I fooled you.
I can speak well; I can write well. But you want intimacy and I give it to you because I crave someone who wants me. You get your intimacy and I give my real self to you and you see how horrendous it is and you pretend to like it but you don’t like it I can tell you don’t like it by the way you say you wish I had someone else to talk to like I can make friends as easily as you because you’re a fucking boxer and you’re friends with a world-champion boxer and your dad is a world-champion boxer and I have accomplished nothing except being too weak to swallow those pills because I was too afraid of my Mom to do it
God I wish I hadn’t done this
I know how this goes you’re not going to come around anymore and I’m going to lose you and you’re going to go to her and she’s going to fuck you and do it right and I’m going to be here angry as fuck because it happened and I let it happen oh my God
where is my Self