Its Just Me and Myself Again and I'm Just Talking to the Walls Tonight.

There's this bitter pain that gets stuck in my ribs somewhere near my heart.
I can't tell if its my lungs breaking or my heart trying to repel an overwhelming sense of fear and abandonment. Maybe both, probably both. Give it ten more minutes and I'll be running to the bathroom for steam and something to puke in.

This isn't a confidence issue.

I wanted so badly to be alone.
There was this level of happiness that I was maintaining all by my lonesome. It sat there like a happy bird, singing its praises of my future ambitions, dreams and desires and it was so content to live without a partner and I do believe she refused to have one, so many times.
How many instances does one need to scream, "NO" before it sinks in? How many times? And when does the realisation that you fucked with something you shouldn't have come into play? When do you start to feel bad? Oh wait, you have a new girlfriend already. You won't feel bad. Because you played me and I was stupid enough to let you.

When am I going to smarten up? Blayne said that I was the exception to the Heliocentric rule, perhaps to a fault. Its about time someone noticed.
But this is how people are supposed to be. Basic rules learned on the first day of Sunday School. You treat people the way you want to be treated. A concept that has been lost in the midst of text messages and parents' credit cards.

My glazed over eyes and aching sides can't take much more of this.
I don't like being fucked with. I don't like pouring my heart out only to have it evaporate. I don't like finding solace in a stranger that turns into a demon. I don't like this indifference, this forgetfulness, this giant fucking handprint left on the side of my face...

STOP FUCKING WITH ME.

You fucking idiot. You mistook my empty and broken insides for a lack of confidence. I'm sad, I'm lonely. I miss having a home and I miss having a steady income of affection and love. You fucking tard, you DON'T MESS WITH THAT. I'm not OK and you knew that, but you don't care and I'm wasting my time typing this because no one will ever get what you did to me and how badly it ruined me.
It was worse than the wrath of ten mothers calling the police on her terrified daughter. It was more heart breaking than hearing a father call his daguther a whore, on repeat, like a broken record. It was more insulting than having a sister who wouldn't defend my honour by refusing to speak to someone so disgustingly empty.

How such a simple thing like sex could make my insides so complicated.

But by the end of this confession someone else has made me smile and thinking about you isn't so difficult anymore. Its just those moments alone when I'm sitting and thinking of your face when words make little sense and I'm suddenly lifted to a different level of comprehension, where all I can do is cry.

I am so tired of you.