I still get butterflies when I think about you.
As much as I’d like for this to piss me off and get under my skin the exact opposite happens. Instead of anger, I smile and instead of happiness there is butterflies.
You know I’m petrified of butterflies right? And for good reason. I can admit to being afraid of a lot of things; bugs, darkness, the interior of my head, dying alone, and the list just continues from there. Out of everything there is nothing more terrifying than the feelings butterflies invoke in a person. The fleeting period of time where you feel like you could literally fly. The happiness that fills you up when you hear the sound of their voice. The smile on your face when they send you a text. All of these things, all of these emotions scare the shit out of me.
Maybe I’m just foolish for thinking you actually liked me, but for a brief span of time I could pretend that you did. I could pretend that you wanted to make me happy. For the brief periods of time that you actually bother to talk to me and we flirt, there are so many things I can pretend, even feeling okay with myself. For the first time in a long time I’ve been okay with being touched. I’m okay with you touching me and mean that in a completely non-sexual way. I mean being hugged and curling with you on the couch; I’m okay with these things because it is you.
We would have worked out? Probably not, but I’d like to try.
I don’t want to hear your shit about the manager or anything. Just fuck off and leave me alone, alright? My life doesn’t revolve around you and it never will. I’m still pissed. Seriously…fuck off because I’m not dealing with you this week.
I never knew what it felt like to have my best friend chose a guy over me.
I’ve known this girl since I was seventeen years old and that is going on five years. Words cannot express how hurt I am that she cancelled our Mardi Gras plans that we have been talking about since the beginning of the semester. It’s a fucking Tuesday, so I can only imagine the manager she is interested in had something to do with it and that is why she’s not arguing it, which is complete and total bullshit. We’ve had these fucking plans since August and her managers knew about them!
I want to punch something.
Or scream.
Probably both because I feel that betrayed.
Fractured
That is how I feel. Is there really another word for it? I mean, I’m sitting here at home crying my eyes out because it feels like the only logical thing to do. There are these little pieces of me and I’m doing a really terrible job of holding them together. It’s so much easier to focus on other peoples problems and not mine.
Starting with the fact that my brothers and parents haven’t spoken in two and a half weeks. This proves quite difficult, considering one of them lives in the house. Or rather, used to live with us. I can’t even say it is my house. I feel out of place here. My voice has no meaning to them, so I sit in my bedroom shut up with my laptop and music on the weekends I’m here to work. It’s not home. I feel like I don’t have one anymore. My one safe zone, the place I could be myself and curl in a ball on the floor and just cry is gone. Instead I sit in my car on break from work and cry because it feels really good.
No one is speaking to one another.
My brother came home tonight and packed up his stuff, then left. We said maybe five sentences to each other. There was no goodbye. There was nothing, because he’s also angry with me and I don’t know why.
My parents told me they weren’t the bad guys. Power got cut off for three days because of him and the only reason it got turned back on is because I gave them the money. I yelled and bitched about it when mom asked and now I feel bad. It’s funny because even though they say they aren’t the bad guys…they really aren’t the good guys either. No one is.
I just want something…anything. I don’t even know what it is anymore. I just need safety and someone to tell me that it’ll be alright. Even though I don’t believe them, I just need it to stop this fracturing.
Speaking.
I went through this phase in ninth grade where I didn’t speak. Well, I did speak every once in awhile, usually in the terms of direct questions and a simple “I’m fine” and “It was good” directed towards my parents when they asked how I was and what my day was like. Fine. Good. They were the only words I felt safe saying because everything else was twisted and contorted, made into something that wasn’t even remotely close to what I said. It took fourteen years, but people around me had finally made me feel like I didn’t exist, like speaking was only doing more harm than good and that I shouldn’t do it. The hole I drove myself into would only get wider and the cuts on my arm would only multiply.
Fine.
Good.
Never “I need help” or “No. It was awful. I didn’t speak. This is the first time I’ve opened my mouth all day. I need someone to hear me. I need someone to understand. Please tell me you do.”
Oh look…the phase is back. I guess it’s a good thing I’m losing my voice. Not like it will get much use now.
“Dear Tummy, sorry for all the butterflies, Dear Pillow, sorry for the tears, Dear Heart, sorry for the damage, Dear Brain you were right” <3
