Pages From My Journal

Do I (d/c)are?

Oh shit, man I haven't felt like a little coward bitch with my tiny ass tail between my oh I wish skinny legs.

That boon of a girl with a thing for brown skirts told, uh uh DEMANDED I communicate back.

Smh
NOW!!!
I will not allow u
To sit there
And be polite
To some fucking hoo haa ass
********
NO.
Go and ******** and say wtv tf u want to say

I didn't.

I failed Impulsive Chhavi as she quite factually pointed out. The Chhavi who bad mouthed her best friend in the middle of school two years back. Why the fuck would I want to be that shitty, horrible downright repulsive person again?

So I kept quiet... but in doing so I hurt the other part of me who hates standing nonsense. But do I dare to fight my case when I think its going to fall on deaf ears?

Maybe I care too much? Maybe I don't know if I still reign over my hot temper?

Diary, I mean its you, I don't have to lie... So I guess the truth is I don't know what was real, I don't know where the pain went. Did it flow down the drain with my tears? Did it burn right off the heat my humiliated face emitted? Did it abandon me? That would be a classic. Predictable. Uh the drama. I detest it.

Lies.... I ignored the signs like the fool I was and for what? I wish I were making excuses when I say I was lost in the haze. It stung my eyes and the hurt was so good. Like the girl with a thing for brown skirts says, "It was more feeling and emotional for you." For me. That's right. Sums up the issue just right.

But though I've reached the conclusion and know what to do, I'm confused. I'm not sure why I decided to sit back and let everything that mattered to me just be crushed. I know I kept my impulsive foul venomous mouth shut because in those fleeting moments I wasn't quick enough to throw away my natural need to care; to put fucking loved ones first. Yes I cheated my happiness and self respect and I feel like a coward. But so what?

So this, I fix it when I can. And that should be okay too, because I'd rather one person hurt than two.

The girl who reads poetry from fucking gold foil books and wears skirts told me there's a difference between falling in love and just loving someone. And that's when I knew. That though there were sparks and potential, there was nothing to fall for.

It was already there (The L word, ah fuck you) so I was basically pushing myself to plant my face on the ground with a thud, possibly breaking my face, which is impeccably perfect thank you very much.

Apparently I'm a Pisces so I have an innate ability to erase people from my life. Ctrl+Alt+Del in the language of 0's and 1's. Does writing all of this support the claim or prove me wrong?

Who knows? I don't want to forget. I'll keep the happy moments and beautiful, mentally penned descriptions in my mind. I'll savor the pictures my eyes screenshotted and revel in the thrill I felt every second so fucking what, bite me!

I have to dare to fight.

When the facts are racing through my mind, I'm far from caring. I don't know if I care and that's a battle I'll fight until the fight. That's the truth.

Thank fuck I don't have defense mechanisms. Pats self on the back.

Yes yes, its late and I'm being foolhardy, I suppose it was time for Impulsive Chhavi to make an entrance. Right babe?

When you're a writer you're used to using your feelings. But sometimes the sadness hurts so bad the thought of writing about those plunging never ending depths that'll make shit more existent and hurtful is haunting. The fear of understanding the pain is choking. No amount of conversion of energy can help you escape it because its fucking real.

And I'm a very strong girl but do I have the guts to spill my soul, splatter my tears, puke out my feelings and present it on a silver platter just to prove my strength? No. I've learnt to fight in silence. The betrayal won't wipe itself away, neither will the sinking abyss of impending terror, but I've learnt that time is a good medicine. Take time.

Love is what makes me me, and I'll try to be kind when I can because it brings happiness.

Thank you for teaching me and being there with your freaky chhavi-needs-help-right-now antenna brown skirt girl. Thank you for being my unpaid (quarter year) therapist. I love you. Especially when you say, "Wee! They're not eggs in a fruit basket."

The weight's been lifted off my shoulders. I feel the calm trickling in albeit slowly, but it feels okay.

Smiles and songs about drowning in a bottle of her perfume,
Chhavi

25/11/2021
1:41 am