of rants and poems.

i'm sorry.

long story short:

i had a bad night.

sorry for the pure born emotions again. I haven't edited this, either.

and i’m so sorry.

because i’m not good at things.

there’s a whole lot i want to be good at.

a whole lot of little things

that I want so badly to change.

and I’m better.

I told you that.

I believe that.

but that doesn’t stop me from shaking

when i’m around too many people.

and it doesn’t stop me from drifting

when i’m anxious, or hurt.

the words “okay” and “better”

don’t stop emotions.

and they don’t make me stronger.

because i still left you.

because i couldn’t fake a smile for you.

and you are the one worried.

you are the one with a family member

in pain.

but i’m still the one that hurts.

i’m the one crying

while you’re strong enough to not.

and i’m the one writing alone.

because you wanted to stay there.

and i was not going to ruin your fun

by being down.

or worrying for you.

or fading out of the group

because of one comment and being uncomfortable.

and I’d rather watch you walk off with someone else

and see your smile in my head

as I walk down alleyways,

shaking,

clutching my gut;

than ruin your night.

because i still need practice.

and maybe i’m not good at emotions.

and because those words,

the ones that I myself told you.

don’t make me stronger.

they don’t fix me.

they only give me a label.

and they’re only ever

half true.

and I’m sorry.

because I am pointless.

and selfish.

and so many things that I see in only myself.

sometimes I feel as if I’m the root of all evil.

and I don’t tell anyone.

because everything about me is pointless.

“all teenagers are like that.”

“you’d like that kind of emo music.”

“all the girls I know say that.”

“all teenagers feel down.”

and I’d bang my head on walls

if I could fix that

because I’m going to be forgotten someday.

especially things that everyone go through.

why do I do this?

why can’t “okay” and “better”

fix me?

why does everything I do

make me feel like I’m part of some stereotype

some greater number

like I’ve never been important

and I never will?

like everything I do is predicted.

like I’m not my own person.

all I’ve ever wanted was to feel different

or special

or feel like I’m my own person.

and maybe people will say,

“oh, you’re good at this!”

“you look great!”

and maybe you’re sitting there

thinking

“you are special.”

but never have I felt that.

never have I truly known.

because I’m selfish.

and I need more practice.

and I need to stop the shaking

in my fingers

the one that makes me ruin your fun.

because I did

by not being there for you.

I did ruin it

by leaving.

and I wonder how many times I’ve ruined you.

and it angers me because there’s comments

that people have made

(and they’re dicks!)

that make me feel a part of some number.

I never wanted to feel like that again.

and it makes me want to hide.

because working for the stupid labels

took me so long.

and being told that

makes me feel as if all this is just nothing.

as if it’s something

that can be fixed

with a first aid kit.

so someone give me a bandaid for my depression.

someone give me scratch cleaner for my mind.

then someone punish me.

because I ruined your fun.

by not being strong.

and I’m so, so sorry.