The killer in me is the killer in you

 

Hey reader. I keep fucking up. All the time.

I don't know why I can't let sleeping dogs lie. 

That wasn't intended to rhyme but it works, whatever. 

I called him. Actually waited until the voicemail kicked in and I was stunned for a moment because it's been so long I heard the voice. I was ok though. 

I think I sputtered because it took me by surprise. Last night I wrote about how words from him- like written ones- always play back in my memory like him talking. 

My not-ex doesn't love me even if he says he does. He's lonely and wants companionship but at a cost where it would mean giving myself up. 

I guess he wants to feel wanted. I get it. He uses me for what I could offer and I use him to get over someone who does in fact, hate me. 

I kept in contact with the guy from reddit but I don't feel any connection. I don't want to use people but I don't know how to get it out of my system. 

I know in my chest, I don't want to do this anymore. I know what I feel and I hate it. 

I don't hate him. I could never hate him. To hate means to wish death upon and I don't ever want to hear he's gone. 

I'm bad. And maybe in realizing I'm bad, I can hide back away and keep it to myself. 

Another thought occured. 

We have different masks for different people. I felt confident with him but I still felt unloved. Not because he didn't love me but because I couldn't love myself. 

Esteem death is a bitch 

The person who has been there all these years, jumping right quick, told me I wasn't their ideal. And how they phrased it, it made me break again. 

I'm no one's ideal. People don't fall in love with wit and silver tongues. 

They fall in love with a face. And I have a face for radio 

I keep circling back 

To all the trolls reading and sniggering, may you someday realize that I hate myself more than you could ever try to hurt me. The way I look at myself is bleak. However if I know anything, it's that I'm a good fucking writer. 

Fuck all y'all. 

S