You’re lovely; in every single way you think you’re not.
1 a.m. in the laundry room, the warm clothes from the dryer suddenly remind me of you. But you’re nowhere near warm. The washing machine cheats me of my time. 38 minutes on the countdown screen becomes almost an hour’s wait. I’d get angry, but I can’t. I don’t want to be angry. Not when everything feels like a crippling sense of loss, that tonight this goodbye feels particularly long, this heartache particularly dull, and this secret particularly hard to keep to myself.
I’ve done it again, over and over again. I’m good at talking bullshit. I’m good at distracting others on what I truly feel. I was hoping that through distracting others, I’d find myself an alternative out of this horrifying truth in myself. But I don’t. I feel it deep within just the same. The hurt gnaws with the same intensity, if not worse. I always desire the impossible, and this time something tells me that things have gone exceptionally out of hand.
This is an internal battle I cannot afford to lose.
My roommate is asleep by the time I’m done with laundry. The smell of fabric softener makes me drowsy, gently alluring me back to the place I don’t want to be. My dreams tease me because my reality is a disastrous failure. My guilt kills me from within. I realise I’ve never been good at dealing with my guilt. I apologise too much. I don’t know how to stop. I am always feeling guilty, even when people tell me I really am not.
My body is a block of wood at 2am in the morning, my brain has stopped functioning. I jot these incoherent thoughts down like I always had. But these dots don’t connect. They don’t ever connect.
; 