Black Is My Happy Color

It’s easier to talk about the pain with someone that didn’t experience it. It’s easier to let the words out we never share with someone that was there. Because we talk about it with someone that has that same hurt, the pain compounds a little, the mutual grief can become suffocating. But when we talk about it with someone that doesn’t know, they take a little bit of the pain with them and it’s not so heavy anymore

I’m not sure when it happened but somewhere along this road, life taught me it was better to be a little bit mean and funny than nice and vulnerable. People tend to not cut things that might cut back. It’s better for the world to laugh at my jokes than to make me one. So here I stand, with a smirk on my lips and not an honest friend in sight.

I like myself better when I’m a little wine drunk, not sure what that says about me.

I think it’s easier to be there for someone else’s pain. Because you can borrow it for a few hours, ease some of the weight, but you don’t have to keep it. You don’t have to take it with you. You get to give it back before it leaves a permanent mark.

She wasn’t easy to love, but that’s the thing about unconditional love. Easy or hard, you’ll do it anyway.

All it took was one day to fuck it all up. Then my decisions spiraled from there. The familiar noose of self sabotage felt like a necklace I forgot I owned. Then I bailed on our plans for next time. Made up another white lie to explain my flakiness. When really I convinced I was soothing my hurt by creating space. I hate that right when I feel like I have everything lined up I start taking every failure personally. Now every delay in answering my messages feels like another wedge of space between us. I’m reading between the lines wondering if you’re pissed I left you hanging, or if you could see through my lies. Or maybe I’m pissed at you for being pissed at me. So now we’re fighting in the silences of our conversations and the spaces in our sentences, but neither of us is truly angry. I’m just sore over past hurts and self deficiencies that have nothing to do with you or the present. But I’m sorry, and it’s not your fault aren’t phrases in my vocabulary. My imagination and my flinch response is quite good though. So I’ll just keep driving this road of self sabotage until either I forgot where I was coming from and who I was leaving behind. Or maybe this time I’ll remember there’s a map under the seat and I’m behind the steering wheel, not my past. I don’t have to be lost anymore.

I feel defeated. I’ve been beat down. And normally there’s some scraps I can dredge up to keep me going. But it’s been months since you left me behind. And I’m not sure what I’m supposed to be living for anymore. I’m not sure this world has purpose for me without you in it. I was yours and your were mine. What good is a puzzle piece without a puzzle. No one cares if you can’t see the full picture. So I’m sitting at rock bottom wondering if I’ve fallen down here or I climbed down myself. Does it matter at this point?