I hate you journal. Because as much as I try to bury my thoughts, they pour out of me. And you are the only one that cares. And so I let you feed on me. I pour my soul into you. A rambling string of bullshit fed directly from my mind. I want to write down these thoughts and burn them. Instead I put them here. I find them later. And I wonder what the fuck is wrong with me.
I offered myself to you this morning. And you passed. It was awkward and hurtful. Depression creeps in from everywhere. Now, here I sit. With a crushing pain in my chest. Eyes swollen. My brain castrated from the effects of the Depakote.
Sometimes I turn back on my thoughts and replay them in my head. I read old shit that I wrote. And it seems silly. I want to believe that the feelings of rejection are not real. That they are just a depressive episode where I am turning on myself. I want to believe that I am being unfairly hard on myself.
But I know you very well now. I know that you would rather have sex alone than with me. And I can't fix that. I have tried to create an environment where you can explore yourself sexually, and I can bask in it as an outsider. But I just end up feeling excluded and strange. And I can't help but think that you have your mind on other men. That you think of other men while you are with me. And I am just your friend with benefits.
I was never what you wanted.
Tonight I will scrub down the bathroom. I will zip my my winter coat and work in the yard. I will do my best to impress you. To earn your attention. And then I will bury my emotions until they come pouring out of me and run down the drain in another late night shower.
And then I will lay awake and watch you sleep. And wonder what you dream about.
I sometimes put my arm around you at night, and you unconsciously shrug me off.
And I know that the rejection is real.
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