it was something to me. therefore it was something. // Friday, July 10, 2020
i wonder if i am broken. if i will ever be repaired. if i am incapable of loving, or if i am just wary, just tired, just untrusting. it was not nothing. but i feel, to some extent, that it would seem like nothing to others. i know for a fact that it meant, and continues to be, nothing, to him. and because of that, i had to make it into "something." i know i didn't conjure the entirety of it in my head. just some of it, so that i could justify why i feel like this. why when i close my eyes, i can hear him shouting at me to get inside the house, that i can feel myself back there, in that moment, like a defenseless animal. helpless and scared. humiliated that i was naive enough to think, perhaps something like childish nostalgia would mean something to this person who i regarded as a friend. i was naive to think he thought the same. i was just another girl he could take advantage of. it didn't matter that he had a girlfriend. it didn't matter that we were friends from middle-school, that he was destroying whatever history we had, that he was disrespecting every fiber of my being. i meant nothing to him. his hand on my thigh, rubbing me. asking and asking and asking. why? why can't i kiss you? do you have a boyfriend? because you have a girlfriend, i said even when i didn't mean it. that wasn't why. it's fine, she won't know, as if that was the problem. it wasn't. you were. i was stupid enough to pretend to laugh at you, taking a selfie of us together. until now i don't know if you laugh about it with the others. are you doing that behind my back? am i the butt of the joke? the girl you cornered into the house. the defenseless animal. is that me? are they all laughing? are you? i don't know. just like i didn't know you then, i don't know you now. but i know that it meant nothing to you, that you could come up to me a year later and shamelessly tell me you didn't have my number. and the fool i was, the fool i still am, gave you my number as if i didn't block you the very night you touched me in ways i wish you didn't. it angers me that i feel this way until now, when you can prance around with your girlfriend guilt-free. probably the same girlfriend you said won't know. the night nothing happened was a just another miss for you. but it was the night that shifted my entire life. i sit here thinking, day in and day out, if i am unlovable because of you. am i broken? nothing happened. nothing happened. nothing happened. no, it was not nothing. if it were nothing then how could i feel this wretched and unstable and lost and fragile, even 4 years after you put your hands on me? it was something. it was. this something is the reason the pathetic me can only say these words on a keyboard, and not spit them at you in person. |
Catharsis // Friday, January 29, 2016
I'm pathetic again, is why. I only ever come here when I'm pathetic. It's because I can no longer control whether I see it in my coffee mug or not. It's just there. I don't have to look because I know. I watch it grow behind the sunlight when I go out for 7am walks. But now it just grows closer, nestled in between the shirts I've folded together, beneath the scatch marks of my roommate's skateboard, hanging on the loose threads of my pyjamas. It's in every fucking particle I breathe, down to my lungs, pumped into my veins, right through my goddamn aorta. All these thoughts. This anxiety. Just this continuous state of unhappy and panicky and worry that I can't shake off, like some bad cold that's been permanently engraved into the skin of my bones. I can't hold it in anymore. It drips with every step I take, bleeds through all the papers I write. It spells out its own name when I type. It's only the beginning of 2016 and I can't fucking hold the paintbrush. I promised myself better drawings. I can't even get past a line. |