The back wheels detached from the frame

I think the most infuriating part is no matter how much confessing I did it was never enough. Because the vulnerable part of confession is being misunderstood. He thought he knew what I was feeling, and all my pitiful attempts at explanation quite possibly only gave him some sort of confirmation... some sort of joy and flattery, really.


I allowed myself to care. I don't feel used, simply stupid for having it happen. I didn't care, and then I cared at all-- a sharp glass shard in the middle of the garbage. A pen pricked finger amidst my needle work, a raging storm to disturb all my best intentions of smooth sailing and flow-going. It sucks to care even a little bit. It's not poetic or glamorous to be on the same page in different versions of the same novel. It might read similar, but never really quite the same.


And yet, every word he spoke to me made me angrier. His insinuations left me frozen and furious, left me mustering up some sort of something... and yet, he didn't care at all. We've both got a lot of growing to do. I quietly pondered over every instance, every attempt at pursuit he'd made... causing me to feel more childish for being-- romanced. To think that there was even a capacity for romance... to even be foolish enough in my childish little head to think such a thing, to convince myself that, at this age, by that boy, that I should want or was even ready to be romanced.. is obsurd. I could slap myself for all the useless toiling I've caused myself. For all the hot smoke my words have blown. I used my honesty as some excuse, as some mask. And he called me honorable; respectable. It all made me want to throw up. The only way I could leave was infuriated. With myself for so many things... with him for thinking that my anger was even about him, really. It could have been anyone, any name or face... it honestly had nothing to do with him. What it came down to was another vulnerable and terribly ended before it should begin. One of those things that has failure written on it right from the start, but you pick it up anyways and begin tinkering away at the thing. Chipping and meddling into it, trying to shape it into some sort of ideal but it's only what it ever was... a hard lump of a thing, stubborn and shapeless. And he would go onto convince me that I had some silly regret for spending time with his friends. The friends were never a part of it, does he think me so pure as to be blind, to be stupid and foolish enough to think the world runs in some pristine manner.. some politically correct notion with every turn of the earth?


I don't want to talk about this anymore. It has me frustrated with myself. I walked away so flustered, knowing he was upset. I left him there, him looking for escapes in the middle of his upsets and his heavy breathing. I just didn't know what to do. I still don't know what to do, but to fight it over in my head until it's gone.