Little pieces of writing that I felt like posting

2024- Sorry (TW)

(Trigger warning for implicit past sh and bad coping skills)
Sorry

10/3/24

I tried. I really did. But the frustration bubbled over, and I shut down. I just wanted to be left alone. I longed to scream, to throw my stuff on the floor and ask him if that was what he wanted, but I didn't. The pain from my nails digging into my palms grounded me, reminded me where I was. I promised my mom I would try to hear him out, but something in me prevented me from doing it. That something is deep inside of me, interwoven with every fiber of my being. It whispers into my ear, bringing hate and anger with it. Hate is such a bitter emotion, it eats away at my heart and presses its clawed talons against my ribs, demanding to be let out. It burns when you acknowledge it, and it smolders when you ignore it. It hurts, more than anything, and even the slightest bit, I succumbed to it. But after I shoved those papers off my desk, I choked on my words and cried. Tears of anger, tears of hatred, but it wasn't directed towards anyone but myself. That I know. People say that crying helps, but all it does is hurt me. And now I crawl back with snot and tears on my face, crescent indents on my palms, and my bleeding heart in my hands, begging for mercy, begging for comfort. Begging for forgiveness.

I would have stayed there forever if I could have. Crying over that desk, spiraling into a pit of guilt and despair. But he made me go downstairs. My vision was blurry, my head was fuzzy, and it felt like everyone was staring at me, that everyone was talking about me, that everyone was judging me, until a lifeline was thrown out into the churning sea, and, reluctantly as it was, I took it.

When someone cares enough to pull you out of those waters, it is something that should never be taken for granted. Even if that is their job, the fact that someone went out of their way to ask if you were alright is a rather nice feeling. I feel disgusting, as if I'm only doing it for attention, only doing it for pity, longing for more of that warmth and comfort. How dare I take that for myself, when so many other people deserve it more than me?

I didn't want to talk. I sat in that chair for what felt like an hour, but was probably more like a few minutes. The ticking of the clock was all I heard, the denim of my jeans under my hands as I waited. They were all so kind to me, and I felt like I was disappointing them by not talking. I hate the way I sound when I'm crying, I hate the way the words don't come out properly, and hate the way I can't keep the tears from falling. I hate the way I look when I cry, all the red in my face and in my eyes.

She wanted to see my smile. I wish I could have given that to her. But I can't smile when I'm like this.

Talking about why I'm crying just makes me cry more. Don't make me think about it, don't let me burden anyone else, don't let this stupid attention whore get what she wants.

Why am I like this? I won't go back, I swear it on my life. I won't go back to that again. Not while those faint lines are still slightly visible on my yellowish pink skin, not while I still have people who want to see me happy, not now. Not ever. I won't let this bring me down.

Is posting this only another way to get attention?