crazy
as in you drive me crazy.
so this isn't healthy. what are you doing about it on your end?
you don't even check this goddamned blog--and the only reason it exists is because you wanted it.
i'm not even special in that regard. you told all your girlfriends that you wanted a blog to share together.
why don't you just go away, like you are determined to.
it's easy for you to say you can take me with you--but you can't promise me that you will take care of me fully.
you are breaking me down.
scratch that--you've broken me already.
i thought it would be alright, to rise from the ashes, like a phoenix from the flames.
but all i feel is emptiness, worry, and shame.
i am ashamed to be alive.
i would really rather just jump off the 6th floor, in a tragic display. no one would really be affected anyway.
maybe my parents would.
maybe Braulio would--but he is so emotionally distraught over all the things I have failed to do for him.
i don't even feel the urge to bother telling you about how downtrodden i feel--because i do not want to bring you down lower than i have already brought you.
maybe you would be better without me, rolan. maybe your dreams would be better if they unfolded without me making you feel horrible.
that's all i do, isn't it? drag you down, burden you, and make you angry and frustrated?
after all, what remains crystal clear is that you don't need me.
there's the rub, i guess. i am working at a permanent disadvantage.
i need you for strength--but you are strong enough to teach me these painful lessons, knowing fully well that you are doing this to satiate your need to assert your superiority over me.
i need you for guidance--and you often relegate the task of helping me to second place, whereas making me feel terribly wrong always comes first.
i need you for companionship--but i can only see you at your convenience. you bring me home, and i am grateful, but it is so painful to even have to ask sometimes. i'd rather just start secretly commuting and lying to everyone AGAIN.
the best part is that you make me feel so horrid for these things that i do to you, when i do not mean you any harm. sige lang, call me a flirt. i thought you understood that i was so different before, and that i still sometimes don't respond appropriately. but wait, i have filled up your shit cup and i can no longer remove it. you said you would try, but you aren't. even if you are, i don't see it. you make me feel useless and meaningless. your words are what make me want to kill myself. there, i said it.
i love you more than anyone in the world, but you are also killing me--not softly, very very harshly.
i thought maybe there was still some hope--some space, and some tenderness you could show me.
but maybe there is nothing left.
you said that there are no erasures.
where do i go from here?
what else can i do?
your obsession with organic action leaves an ignoramus like me completely dumbfounded. and i am at an impasse.
i can't even bring myself to debate because you make me feel insufficient.
oh btw, my eyeball, it's acting up again. maybe this is blindness. maybe there would be poetic justice in my loss of sight. i mean, it's appropriate right? i don't see things clearly anyway.
and i will stop eating again. it's a waste of money anyway. and people like me more when i'm thin. never-you-mind that i could develop ulcers or become more easy-to-rape by being weak and useless.
it sickens me that i would rather hurt myself than hurt you--but the fact of the matter is that you come first now, you even come before me.
that makes me crazy.
i'm fucking insane for you, and you don't even know how to keep me from jumping over the edge.
you are the only one pushing now.
what are you going to do?
