No, truly, I am sorry.
I know better than anyone how it feels like to be on the other side of the telephone.
I'm sorry that I'm like that.
That the baggage I come with has Insecurity lined in some of the pockets.
That I let it come through sometimes.
That, maybe I don't carry it forth, but everytime you ask me why, I can't say it. I don't know how to. But I can tell you that clips run themselves through my head. Moment, after moment, after moment. And I tell you the gist of it, but don't know how to explain how or why, or that some part of it stays with me. Has stayed with me, since pushing itself into my veins, and making it part of who I am.
Would you like to know how it feels like?
It's numbing. You get used to it. You anticipate it.
The holding you down. The I Love Yous that will feel like knives drawing vertical lines on the inside of your arm. The creak of the door. The sound of a belt buckle clinking.
You get used to it. You know exactly what sound, comes next, which way a body will move, and how excuses will come out- variations of the last one and the one before.
Sure, the roof of your mouth will still feel like sand, and the click of the door as it closes still breathes a laugh into you. But you get used to it. I got used to it.
Then you just wait. For it to happen. For people to feel like they need to give you reasons or excuses or justifications.
I'm not like this. Not always.
And maybe it's that time of the month (I was taught to start giving it more credit), but there are these bits of me. And they surface. I'd much rather they didn't.
I've spent a lifetime fitting into moulds, or at the very least, trying my darnest to.
I can do that. I'll do that for you, if you want me to.
There are some things that I don't know how to pick my way through, I just don't.
You don't have to do this for me; Stay around, y'know?
Not when I'm like this; Used up and broken. You don't have to.