Just a Witness
I feel better when I talk to him, but then I just keep crying. I can’t stop crying. I’ve been crying since I got home.
I opened this without a clue what I was going to write about — my mind feels empty. I’m sure if I searched, I’d find the reason for why my tears flow greater than any tsunami, but for now, I haven’t dared explore.
I’m not a helpless person, I think. I’d hope so. There’s no reason for me to consider myself that way. Rather, I’m a helpful person, right? Someone who extends countless hands, and takes countless hands, rather than refuses them.
Though — If I throw myself into the ocean, I’d prefer to drown than be saved.
“Stuck in a web, she’s stupid to be stuck there,” but that’s right where I want to be.
Any point of misery I’ve felt has been foreseen — I know I walk into burning buildings and come out charred. Vaults of acid and become disfigured. Through a rose bush and come out pierced.
But I come out, and that’s the point.
What a compelling heroine who throws herself into danger like some sort of martyr, don’t you think?
Obviously not — I’m just a delusionally sadistic, crybaby of a woman.
I slap at the hand that feeds me and expect my own dog not to bite.
Not that that’s ever happened.
I just feel so unfulfilled, and I feel like my draining tears are just causing for more empty space to fill.
Can it be so hard to read my mind? I don't want to say what I think but I want my thoughts to be spoken — is that too much?
What even are my thoughts, anyway?
I can’t stop crying. I just want him. But that just disgusts me. I’ll kill myself before I rely on someone for something that can be found within.
I’m capable of happiness, just on my own.
I want everyone to be anxious that one day I’ll be on my own while they’re stuck alone and miserable.