Malcontent

We're too similar sometimes. I mean, we're not. But we are. We have the same thoughts at the same time, we have the same dance of insecurities.

And so it shouldn't have come as a surprise.

How appropriate those words sound, right? You don't know, but I do.

And now, I should craft an apology letter. I'm not sorry. I mean, not really. Mm. I don't know if I am; what he said could be true, but I know that there was cruelness behind it. I wish he wouldn't pretend impartiality. Cause it's insulting.

I know why you said it, you know. It's the same reason I can't feel sorry. What I have said to you, that was honest, but ultimately betraying and alarming. I don't want to be so transparent; I don't want to be a bad person. And you don't want to be disappointed.

And so we end it in a bad place; what you said was loaded (again, serendipitiously appropriate), and how I reacted, extreme. There is distance again. You are happy. I am not.

I told you: And you don't seem to understand how important endurance has become to me. The idea of being left terrifies me. The thought of it, makes me want to cry. If I'm not useful, if you can't be upset around me too . . . I will be left.

But maybe this is how I know. I have already learned that it is better to never have loved at all; everything is temporary. I just have to know how temporary. You're angry right now. Your messages are very clear. It's a turning point, I think. I don't know which way it will go. I hate this. I tried to tell you I hate this.

I am afraid to listen to the message.

It seems to have gotten worse. You've said: . . . . we don't seem to be good for each other. Walking off like that was fucked up though. Whatever, it's all fucked.

I am more freaked out than ever. I can't fix this, and I am no longer treading water. I listened to it. I listened to it and you didn't sound angry. I am digging a cavern I can no longer see the lip of. He's right. It's all fucked. And it's crushing me. I don't want to be left. I tried to tell you.

I make things harder for myself. Try to stop being fucked up, lola. You know what I mean. It's a sad thing to see. You aren't that important. You aren't.

It would be easier if sometimes -- just sometimes -- we stopped playing the game, because sometimes, we're not playing the game.