I hate the stupid question of how one can live with themselves knowing they destroyed another human being. I hate knowing I have friends who cannot fathom an answer to this question and, instead, resign themselves to the misery of thinking it was them; they were the one who broke the walls and let the monsters out.
It's not you. It's never fucking you and you should be smarter than this.
You want your fucking answer? We do not.
We spend hours losing ourselves in countless bottles of empty promises, we stare at the ceiling until the sun peaks its ugly head and we need to drag our asses out of bed, we bury our heads between the thighs of new lovers, between the pages of books that talk about all the things we fear we may never be. We replay every conversation in our heads a thousand times until we find the splits, until we start to scream, until our chords give out. We look up stupid things on the internet to distract from the nagging voice in our heads screaming "You fucked this up too", and the worst part of it all is that we do everything we can to silence that voice.
How do we live with ourselves? Carefully. It's the patient construction of a house of cards so delicate the slightest thought or memory of you would bring it crashing down into an avalanche of guilt. We build walls behind flirty messages and "Everything's okay" to show you that you are insignificant. At times, you really are... until the wind blows just the right way, or that song on the radio has the right sound and all that's inside our brains is you: your taste, your feel, your sounds, your everything.
Not everything's about you, darling. Not every harsh word or barked out anger that slices through your hope is yours. It almost never is. It's a panic-stricken state of being in which the walls are coming in and suffocating, and there's nothing you or anyone else can say that will even slow them down remotely. It's the painful hammer of a broken tooth that drums endlessly inside your skull until you cannot fucking take it anymore. It's a misspoken word that triggered worthlessness or something even worse the hopelessness we felt at some point in time where our prince charming left us behind.
And who are you to tell me I am worth my salt? That everything around me surely won't fall apart? Who are you to promise me that it will be okay when every cell inside me wants me to run away? Why should I believe you, with your words so clean, that you'll finally be the one when all the ones before you said the same damn thing?
You want to know how we fucking live with ourselves knowing you're home heartbroken by yourselves? Knowing you're sobbing constantly into your fucking shirts or that you soaked through all fifteen pillows? Just barely. Inching into a horizon, justifying treason through schizophrenic logic, trying to find the next fucking thing to keep us together. Do you think us so stupid that we cannot comprehend the fall out of our words or actions? Do you think we do not know? We do. And at some point it becomes the balancing act of the edge of a knife where on either side is the knowledge we love you and that we will destroy you.
Stop asking such fucking questions and count your blessings. Wait for us to come around or don't let us walk away from the start.
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