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“You’re a ticking time bomb,” I hear myself say, my voice distant even to my own ears. “One that just keeps fucking rebuilding itself after every explosion, over and over and over again. But I don’t. I don’t rebuild. I don’t heal. I just keep taking it. But I can’t anymore. There’s not enough left of me to take any more shrapnel and walk out alive.”
“It’s not your job to love who brought you into this world unconditionally. It’s the other way around. You don’t owe me anything.”
People are still gonna see me with a dude and just assume I’m gay. The label is all they’ll see, no matter how happy I am. No matter how I might feel. Maybe I’m bi, but does it even matter? No one will see it like that.”
Is it pathetic? Unmanly, that I…feel so much these days? Maybe. But also, fuck that and fuck you. Who decided it was a crime for boys to fucking feel? Who decided we can’t be soft too?
“Just ’cause the sun’s out, doesn’t mean everything’s okay. And it’s, well, okay to not be okay…”
After months—years, really—of relying on some kind of substance to take the edge off, I realize I have no idea how the hell other people do it. Just raw-dogging their way through life like it’s not this constant cheese grater on their sanity.
