2001-10-02
I wish you didn't read this. I wish I wish I wish.
I have nothing to say to defend myself. I feel as though I've done wrong. I feel as though I've yelled at you, for something that you don't deserve. And perhaps that's what I have done.
I don't know anymore.
I miss talking to you, but I don't know if you still want to talk to me. I can't reach out, just to try, because I'm scared. Scared that you'll say no. Scared you won't talk to me. Scared you'll say you understood everything and thought it was the end of us. Although there is no 'us'.
I'd like to apologize. I'd like to say I'm sorry. I'd like to...
everything.
Sometimes I hate you. But I hate myself more. And that's what you read. Not the hate about you, because it's not real, it's not true. The hate about me is. And it'll always be.
You won't understand this, I think. Just that it's easier to hate me by yelling at others. I've seen it done often. But.
I know it's not fair. I know it's not right. But.
I have to do it. I need it. It's the only way I can survive without whacking my arm to pieces.
You know, sometimes I want you to understand me so much it scares me. I want you to know. I want you to see, feel, taste. I want you to know the essence of me. And I know it's not right. I know it shouldn't matter.
I just want to be understood. And hugged, perhaps. Every once in a while. I need you. I know you. I love you. But. I can't say it. Not always. Not when I'm mad. Mad at myself, mostly. Never mad at you for anything you could've done. Perhaps that's wrong, too. I don't know.
Sometimes I just want to die. And I'm sorry about it.