A Letter I'll Never Send
It happens pretty much every day. I'll say something. These days, it could be just about anything. The minute the words are out of my mouth, I'll know. They were wrong. I was wrong. I want to claw those words back, erase them, pull them out of the air before you hear them. Too late. Always too late.
And then your words start. All that hatred, pouring out. Not careless words, like mine. Carefully chosen. Impeccably planned to cut me. And they don't stop. You don't stop, ever. I try to apologize. I try to explain. I try to deflect and escape. I try to defuse. You don't stop. The emotional pain becomes physical pain, like a knife in my chest as I try to hold in the tears. If I fail, it's worse. If I break, I'll make it worse. I almost always break. I prove you right about me.
After I get away, I can hear your words still. An endless loop, reminding me that there's no hope for me, no hope for us, no hope for anything. The pain in my chest dulls slowly to an ache. The ache that's always with me, that keeps me awake at night, that makes me wish myself dead and gone a thousand times a day.
You don't care about this. You don't care about me, not anymore. Because I'm not worthy of your caring, of anyone's caring.
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