hurt

I don't want your fucking pity.  I'm not doing this to get some sort of congratulatory, ego-boosting statement from you.  I actually, genuinely want to help...and I want you to know that, so that you know that the whole world (or what you perceive it to be) isn't against you.  Yeah, the boss man is a tool sometimes. Yes, sometimes people don't give a shit about anything else other than their own shit.  They can't hear you talking because they're not listening.  They don't remember.  They don't care.  But I do.  And I'm a fucking chump because of it.  Because every time I try and extricate myself from this sort of messy business...every time I tell myself I'm going to take my hands off the wheel...every time I say I'm not going to reply to that text, or try and offer a helping hand, something inside me takes over and I inevitably reach out.  And what does it get me.  Whinging, non-committal, roundabout vagueness.  I ask for a yes or no answer, and I get neither.  I get my words repeated back at me.  I get shit I said weeks ago dropped into my lap, like you're taking credit for coming up with it.  That is a slap in the face.  You wouldn't know a fucking slap in the face if you got slapped in the face because you're too busy trying to figure out how to play me.  Six fucking years of this shit.  Six years of me trying to be a friend.  Trying to show you who I am.  Who I really am.  And all you see is a mark.  An ace up your sleeve to pull out when you feel like it to rig the game.  What the fuck is wrong with me?  How did I allow myself to crouch down in such a low position that I'm constantly in grovel mode?  I try to be a hero...and instead I'm the fucking butler.  The dude in the washroom handing you a towel so you can wipe your brow and dry your hands.  It makes me feel so fucking small.  It makes me feel stupid for even caring in the first place.  But you know what?  I can't change.  Because I'll end up feeling guilty for feeling this way right now.  I'll end up apologizing with more of the same.  More help.  More effort.  And it just wears me down to a flimsy, fragile stick of a man.  Someone who hates himself and his life 9 days out of 10.  Someone who's so fucking tired all the time, and when I'm not...those brief moments when I'm good and great and on fire...I don't even get to enjoy them because nobody else sees it.  I hear about it afterwards, through the grapevine. Only it doesn't ring true.  It sound fake and hollow and pandering.  Like I'm some puppy who didn't shit on the floor.  'Isn't he the cutest thing ever?!?'

You think people understand you and what your about, but they have no idea.  I don't think the really believe it.  Maybe because I'm not sure I even do anymore.  Like I'm tricking myself.  Trying to convince myself I'm a good person, when really I'm just as dirty and damaged and angry and fucking selfish as everyone else.  Enough of this shit.  I don't believe you.  You say what you think I want to hear, when all I want is the fucking truth.  The truth.  Honest words that come from the same place mine do.  No cover.  No mask.  No filter.  Just honest words.  Sure, I try and spruce them up a bit, make them flow and swoop into your ears and through your brain like a warm breeze.  But they're still honest.  Like a bouquet of flowers just because.  Just because you make me feel good...or you did...when I would believe it because I wanted to.  Because I don't hear it enough.  Because I give and give and give and never get back.

I'm a loser.  I lost.  I'm still losing.  And I'm still doing shit I don't want to do because it's the only option.  The only real option.  And so it goes.  And I have to wake up again and face it head on again.  I have to put on a smile for the masses and pretend like I like my job...my life...myself.  I don't and I don't and I don't.  I don't.  I want to fucking disappear.  I don't want to ever talk or see or hear from you again.  All of you.  Every last fucking one of you.   I don't care.  I don't trust you anymore.  I'm all used up.  I'm so fucking tired.  You each got your pound of flesh.  Your pint of blood.  Your memory to recall when I'm gone and dead and you're still living, pretending that you miss me.  I don't want you to feel guilty or sorry for me, because I don't care anymore.  I don't fucking care anymore.  Go away.  Live you're life.  I genuinely, honestly, want you to be happy...to be loved and healthy and smart and have good things happen to you.  All that resentment and jealousy and bitterness is gone.  You sucked it all out of me.  All of you.  You and you and you and you and you.  Every last fucking one of you.

I'm so, so, so sick of people messing with me.  I'm sick of messing with myself.  Pulling the wool over my eyes so that I might see something, anything that brings a sense of joy and accomplishment into my meaningless, empty life.  All these hours at the keyboard, staring at a bright screen full of hate and venom and depressing, sad stories.  Of a world that resembles nothing of the one I imagined.  Of people who are so fucking fake and simply acting.  Everyone is Hollywood now.  Everyone is a fucking actor.  There is no reality.  Reality is a fake reality we direct and shoot with our eyes and our brain.  And tomorrow is a different show.  Or a re-run.

I blew it first.  It's what I do.  But you didn't have to pat me on the head and make me feel like a little boy.  Like some lost child who just wants to go home to his mommy.  I don't have a home.  My home is in this empty room with this empty feeling in my chest that hurts like a air bubble caught in my soul.

And now I'm mad at myself all over again for feeling this way.  For feeling like I'm wrong, when you did this.  You came to me.  You started it.  I was out.  I was out, and for some perverse, selfish reason you grab me by the ear and yell and pout and ask me why.  How the fuck am I supposed to know?  What am I supposed to do?  You don't want me to do anything, but yet you ask?  You know what that does to me.  You know I can't stop from caring.  And still you do it anyway.  Why?  You want to know why?  Because you do see it.  You do know that I'm the fucking shit.  That I'm one in a billion.  That I'm the real fucking deal.  The genuine article.  Yet you won't let yourself admit it.  Just before the light-bulb is about to go off, you shake it off.  You diffuse your feelings by rendering it null and void with punch to my arm.  Like you saw on TV.

This is why I can't trust anybody.  This is why I don't care.  This is why I'm ready to die every fucking day of the week.  This is how you hurt me.  By making me hurt myself.