Salve, slice

It’s really fucking confusing being around you.

One minute you’re trying to turn me on, and the next, you’re talking about getting lap dances from strangers.

You know I want to be with you. You know I hate it when you “joke around.”

Everybody jokes around. Everybody has always joked around with me. Played with my goddamn emotions and then stepped back as I fell off the cliff into the chasm of embarrassment and shame I am so sorry I met you I am so sorry I met all of them

Especially Her.

You say you’re not just like Her.

You’re worse.

She, at least, gave me a consistent illusion that she was in love with me. I was more terrified of her than I was of you, but that was because I wasn’t out yet. I loved her with every subatomic particle in my body, and she destroyed me because either her professions of love for me were utterly false and she just manipulated my emotions to exploit me for my mind and body, or she was terrified of me and couldn’t trust that I wouldn’t hurt her

But you.

You.

You say things like I love you or the main reason I don’t want to get back together is because I can’t control my feelings for Ryann and that’s not fair to you or we should go buy this house together or I’m going to stay the night or you can lay down with me or I know you want to have sex with me

and then the next day you’re talking about her, about Ryann, and using emojis with hearts for eyes and I’m left here wondering if anybody has healed at the scene of a car crash.

The problem is that I would wait for you for a lifetime.

I would have waited for them all for a lifetime.

The others left me. I was able to move on. I was able to sever the tethers of flesh and blood running from my heart to theirs.

But you — you won’t leave. You don’t want me to be too close, but you don’t want me to be too far away.

I’m done playing Houdini.

I realize now that the heart eyes were for the paczkis Ryann bought.

This is why I write. This is why I show no one the inside of my brain.

You think you can’t talk to me about her. Good. You shouldn’t. It’s despicable. I have loved you fiercely. I have taken care of you, encouraged you to explore your dreams and chase after them, and you have taken me for granted.

This is how things always work out: I break my back to serve their sorry asses, and for once in their miserable lives, they feel like someone notices them. But, it isn’t long before they abuse me and look for someone else to fuck.

The only person who consistently loved me is the only person I have ever dated with whom I am now completely disgusted.

Someone once asked me to analyze why she has wanted rough sex at certain times in her life.

This isn’t the same thing. Rough sex is amazing, and it has nothing to do with self-loathing.

The day after I got wasted, I wished you’d come over and beat me senseless. I wanted to ask you to come over and beat the shit out of me.

It would’ve been the only thing that made sense at the time.

Honestly, I would rather someone ram their fists into my orbital sockets, smack their palms against my cheeks, and pick me up and throw me across the room than endure the torment of my own mind inverting on itself.

Instead of sorting out all this mess
instead of obsessing over the why
instead of constantly fighting the idea that everything is my fault

can we just say it is

and can you destroy me

it makes sense.

it is the only thing that has ever made sense.

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