I wanna ask you if you love me but I don’t wanna seem so weak
Nothing means a fucking thing anymore, I couldn’t give two fucks about anyone. And I mean anyone. I don’t know what love is now, don’t think I ever did and I hope I never fucking do. If I could have anything in the world right now it would be a one way ticket to Paris and I’d never fucking return. There is so much anger and hurt inside me that I can’t physically cope anymore. I don’t want to eat or be awake or do anything. I’m going to spend all my money on drugs this weekend and see how getting absolutely fucked makes me feel. Because anything is better than the numbness I know I’ll wake up with tomorrow.
Let’s meet on wednesday. Oh, I actually meant thursday. Sorry can’t do thursday, i’ll come down on friday. Bails on friday.
WELL MAYBE I DON’T FUCKING WANT TO SEE YOU SATURDAY OR SUNDAY OR MONDAY OR TUESDAY OR WEDNESDAY OR THURSDAY OR FRIDAY. MAYBE BY NEXT SUNDAY I’LL HAVE CALMED DOWN ENOUGH TO SEE YOU. MAYBE.
I don’t understand. You won’t talk about my three week holiday because you’ll “miss me too much” yet, when i’m here and you have the chance to see me, you just don’t. And not even for legitimate reasons, other than you’re a lazy fuck. You’re off in town drinking coffee and having a good time probably with some other girl, and that’s what I want you to do. But you insist i’m not holding you back, and that this fucked up ugly shit thing we have is just what you want, what you need. You bullshit about us getting married, MARRIED. And I laugh and humour you because I know it’s not ever going to actually happen, and I’m okay with that.
I met someone, his name’s Graeme. He’s funny and intelligent and good looking and nice to me. And I barely know him, but I really think it could go somewhere, and I brushed him off because of you. And i’m sad, because I know he would treat me right. Like you did, you had been treating me so so much better recently and when I finally accepted it and stop acting like a bitch because I was so bitter over the hurt you caused me, you throw it back in my face and start acting like a CLASS A ARSE.
And i’m tired, so I turned off my phone and will avoid you for as long as possible, because, despite you buying me my favourite crisps and drink every time I come to yours, and playing me Bon Iver, it doesn’t work the way you think it does. It’s not, oh I’ve been nice to her for a while now, so I’ll just disappoint her, and be an arse.
I know I let you down on seeing you a few weeks ago, but I had legitimate reasoning for doing so, and I was genuinely sorry. Which is more than can be said for you, in fact, you didn’t even pretend to be sorry. And I know I told you not to bother your arse coming down today, it’s because I needed the power of being able to say, I don’t want you here, I don’t want to see you today, opposed to you pissing about until 7 and then going “oh em, it’s quite late and there’s no point in me coming down now.” Fuck that. Fuck you. You said it yourself, I deserve better, well maybe it’s about time I realise it.
We talk about marriage sometimes. ‘What do you expect?’ I ask.Bon Iver considers the question with a thoughtful tilt of the head, as he always does.