Me And My Stupid Pride

"Why do you have to insult everybody?" "I'm being honest, asshole. I would expect you to know the difference."

Chase after me.

Fine, fuck him. I could care less. That's the fantastic thing about a hard shell: you don't let a lot of people in. So when someone skirts around the edges, and then fucks you over, it doesn't even hurt at all. Well, maybe a little.

But I've hurt way worse. He hurt me more. Because I loved him more. Sorry. Love him more. 

After everything, I must confess, I need you.

And now I'm not hurting. I'm pissed. I am so angry. Why did you have to text me if you don't want me? Do you want me? I'm afraid you won't talk to me for a while again. You come out of nowhere and make me fall again, face first. And then you disappear. MIA.

You're the only one that I want. Think I'm addicted to your light.

Fuck. Don't you dare do that to me again. I need to talk to you. To tell you everything. I promise. I swear it. If you text me this weekend, I will tell you EVERYTHING. About how every time a new guy came around I compared him to you. About how a new one came around and I was hesitant because of you. About how I got fucked over and I didn't care very much because you were there. About how happy you make me.

You were the one thing I loved about myself. That I could attract someone as pure, gentle, kind, and innocent as you. That I entranced you.

You're my dream. You're in every one of my dreams.

I'm standing next to a faceless stranger in a white dress. He's wearing a black tux. And I am feeling bitter. He leans in to kiss me and in that moment, I hate him. Your face jumps to my mind and I'm so angry and overwhelmed I can barely breathe. I turn away and run. I run far. I end up in a field and I'm alone. A light blue phone lies on the grass. I pick it up and you're waiting on the other end. "Don't do it." You whisper.

I stand on a ledge. I can't fall because ropes secure me to the top of the building. Each rope is labeled: school, family, future, past, present, happiness, vacation. One by one the ropes are cut. Until only one is holding me in place. It's labeled "AV." Move. It can't be cut. I'm pulling on it. But it won't get off of my ankle. No, it's not just on my ankle. The rope separates and attaches to both my ankles, my wrists, my torso, my neck. It strangles me but it keeps me upright. I sigh. "Okay," I whisper to him, "I'm getting down."

It'll all get better in time.

If I let you go, would I still be in pain?
Or have I learned to love abuse?