To whom it may concern.

How susceptible teenagers are to heartache! Some guys, and some girls too, just don’t know their own strength. They don’t know how much they effect you — or how easily their words can tear at your hide. At my hide. At what I thought was my heart.  I’ve wanted to make a post here for quite a while, but I couldn’t bear it. As angry, as sad and DISAPPOINTED I was, I fought against letting you see it. I allowed myself to feel something for someone who was real, who was right here at my hand or in my arms, and it was all just a disappointment. A final letdown, proving to me what I always thought before. I am not worth another’s love, that word rolls off my tongue with a sickening thud, or at least not his. It’s all shit, with a motherfuckload of excuses, and I’m tired of thinking about, dreaming about it, wondering whether I should believe what I’m told, or what I fear is the reason for his neglect. My friends act shocked — ‘You spoke so highly of him!’ ‘He sounded like such a nice guy….’ — coupled with sad frowns and pitiful eyes, as they go home at night to their beloved boys. No one is perfect, neither he nor I nor our “unfortunate situation”, but fuck, why does it all have to happen now? Why couldn’t this one thing just work out and prove me wrong. < It’s not a question, just frustrated observation.

I am someone who keeps emails and text messages, and replays sweet whispers over and over in my head until they lose their meaning, wordpress you know this. But I’ve since recorded in detail what I remember, and then I made myself forget it. The record I still own, but I’m trying to forget, and so scared to forget in the same instant. I’m scared that if I ever saw or talked to him again that I would feel that want to get to know you again sensation as I did with David, and Raph.

But this is different, he is different, because he was right fucking here, in Georgia, a mere hour away, and still he made a choice not to see me. Because he didn’t want to, excuses be damned. My mom always says, you can’t squeeze blood out of a turnip. It’s not going to happen, no matter how much you force it or will it to produce that way. So the feelings, emotions, and immature actions of another, I cannot control. Be happy, having dinner with ex’s and making plans with friends, and one day I’ll be happy too. With someone else, somewhere else, far from this hurt and these stupid, wonderful fucking memories.


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