Incomplete

I know you’ll never read it and perhaps that’s the best because often times I just make excuses and that doesn’t really count as an apology. 

I’m sorry for the way I acted today. I fear hurting people that I love. Weirdly enough, though we haven’t been friends for long, I love you. Not “in-love”, but the best kind of love where you want nothing but the best for the person. Already, I consider you a close friend. And now I’ve screwed that up. For that, I am very sorry. My friends were very angry with me today after I told them we spent time together. They accused me of leading you on and implying that I was a bitch. The last thing I ever want to be is a bitch. I think you’re one of the funniest, smartest, most interesting people I’ve ever met. And I really like hanging out with you. But it must be bad of me because they all were very angry with me. And so then I sent you that text message and maybe now I’m even more of a bitch for sending that and now it’s awkward and everyone here is still freaking out and it feels like high school all over again. And that’s really a bummer. So I guess there’s an explanation as to why I did what I did. And maybe it’s bad of me to wish I didn’t because now things are weird and I don’t like it one bit. But that’s why I won’t send this to you. Because you deserve friends who aren’t bitches. So consider this my sincerest apology. I know it’s not very good but I pinky promise (the ultimate pinky promise of course) that I mean it very much. I hope you don’t hate me and that you maybe choose to be my friend still. 

Sincerely, 

Your younger, less cool friend

foreveryoungandsilly:

Once upon a time you would have done so much more for me

foreveryoungandsilly:

You stand under the head as the sobs come, uncontrollable. You remain silent except for a few keening noises. The tears flow more numerous than the drops from the head and they continue as you slide halfway down the wall, your despair leaving your knees weak. For that’s what it is, at first. Despair. You claw at your hair and your skin, pulling hairs and leaving long trails of pink agony, desperate to get ahold of the desolate feeling within you. But after a while, the tears stop and the numbness sets in. You turn the knob, the already scalding water getting hotter. The skin on your front turns red and you marvel at the burning redness and imagine the water flowing over bubbling skin, boiling you past recognition. The pain of the water almost matches the misery inside you but it also creates a numbness that is almost enthralling. You stand there, reveling in the red misery, a pain that imitates the agony you felt inside. Staring at your blotchy, pruned hands, you notice that the wrinkles have wrinkles. The heat turns off. You step out and the cool air hits your skin in a new painful sensation. The red recedes from your skin. But the pain stays.