I feel like you led me on. But I don’t think you did.
I feel sick to my stomach. But I still don’t blame you.
I wish I could just be angry. But all I can feel is pain and loneliness and missing you so strongly it’s like dying from the inside out.
We still talk. But it’s not the same. Because what we had, what we should have, lingers behind every word.
We never had a chance.
We never stood a chance.
It’s 2:33 a.m. I turned 26 yesterday.
Now I’m rocking back and forth in my bed trying to drown out the sounds of my mother’s emotional breakdown.
How dare she have children when she is still a child herself in her 60s?
Between her and my meth addict father, if I didn’t have my brother I would have lost my mind. I might’ve fucking killed myself by now.
I need someone to hear my voice and understand, really and truly, what I am.
I am so much more than they would believe. And so much less than I’d like to be.
I feel so empty and alone sometimes that I could scream, but I don’t dare. I fear I would never stop.