As a kid, I used to love the holidays. The presents, the food, everything. But now it feels so empty.
Recently, I’ve been telling people that I’ve given up on you. That I despise you. Honestly, as much as I want to, I didn’t mean any of that. I love you and it hurts, but giving up hurts more. I never meant to hurt you. To literally slap you in the face. I wanted to talk. To talk about why you hate me, why you mock me, make fun of me…. hurt me. But you pushed me to my limits. I was emotional and I know that wasn’t a good enough reason for my actions but that day I was talking to you, you were smiling the whole time. I was pissed and was close to tears but you were smiling. I don’t know why but my body just moved at it’s own will and slapped you right in the face. It took minutes before I realized what I’ve done and I apologized to you so many times. Regardless, it just got worse.
I thought you were the type to not bring up such a personal topic among your friends, but you proved me wrong. You blabbed it all out. The reason I talked to you, me slapping you, everything. And that was brought in the open for the whole class to know. God it was painful. To have people look at you as if you killed someone, I just had to literally slash my wrists over it.
What hurts most is that after you found out that I hurt myself, you didn’t give a damn. During the first few weeks you found out about me hurting myself, you tried to keep anything sharp away from me. A pair of scissors, a cutter.. heck I guess even a fine tipped pen if I tried. But now? I don’t even think that you’d care if I stabbed myself right in front of you. What happened to the boy I loved? The person who cared for those around him? Or was it just my own selfish hallucinations?
Sometimes I ask myself, what if I said yes to the boy who confessed to me? What if I just gave in rather than stay faithful on someone who doesn’t even like me? Would I be happy? But hey, I’m only thinking about this now because of all the pain. I know that guy deserves more than an idiot like me.
That’s right, I’m an idiot. I love you to the point it hurts.
To know that one does not write for the other, to know that these things I am going to write will never cause me to be loved by the one I love, to know that writing compensates for nothing.