bait the monster.
I love you. You said you were afraid of hurting me, granted for selfish reasons perhaps, but I was able to pretend that it was genuine enough to be a source of comfort. It could have actually been real for all I know. Who knows? You do. You know the answers to all these questions. Of course. They're about you. You love talking about you. Until it's about you. Or me, I guess. It hurts and it's entirely because I love you. Loving you hurts. You already said that, though. Here's something you'll love: “You were right.” Bet that made you smirk . You’re such a self-centered little fucker.
I’m glad I never baited the monster like you did. Depression is hard, anxiety sucks, life’s a cunt. Yeah. Sure. You can drown your whining in liquor all you want, it won’t chance the fact that you’re still a naive child. Does saying that make me a bitch? Probably. But you need to be a bitch to deal with an asshole. Besides, you were playing with another person, not a toy. You knew that. If you wanted empty advice and sweet platitudes you should have just dropped acid with a guy who almost killed you in a speeding car. If you want faux compliments and shallow adoration you can find them in the bottle of artificial meaning you clutch at every night. You don’t want reality. You want to be safe in your synthetic bliss and lash out every time someone crumbles those walls.
I know you. You’ll read this and get angry at me. Your voice will raise, but you won’t yell. You’ll tell me I’m wrong. You’ll tell me that I don’t understand. I think I know, but I don’t. I’m arrogant. My sparkling white high horse, my sheltered reality. “You’re lonely.” Desperate. We’ll never work. You’re right. You don’t want it to work. All you want is to hide in the woods and never grow up because you can justify this to yourself. But you can’t justify it to anyone else. You can’t justify it to me. I see through it all.
