( I'm half sick of shadows.Collapse )
Teeny tiny post. It's been a while, and I'm supposed to be writing an English essay, but fuck that, really. 

I'm a bitch. I'M A BITCH. I'm a fucking bitch. Oh my God, I'm so sorry.

I texted Caitlin telling her 'Fuck you, and here's hoping all that you worked for doesn't fall apart.' Which clearly, isn't me hoping for that. And you know what, she fucking spent $500 on me because she never had international texting. WHAT AM I EVEN SUPPOSED TO DO. Oh my fucking God, I'm so upset. I'm so fucking retarded, and I might just smash my face repeatedly onto the edge of a table for this because I'm THE worst person in the world, and fuck. It's CAITLIN. Fucking Caitlin.

I'm going to shoot myself. Omg, Cait. I'm so, so, so sorry.

I'm a mess, a dark blot of rot and bitterness in her bright sitting room. She's seated opposite of me, calmly sipping tea and daintily setting it down ("pinkies down first, you see? so that it won't make an offensive noise"). She's usually so pristine, but now she hardly seems upset by the muck I'm dragging into her home, the slime oozing down the aching hole in my chest. A silent plea for her to take some of these feelings, away from me, far as she can, share my burden ("if you love me, please") but she'll have none of it.

Her silent, and yet alien tolerance for me borders on something amused, and for that moment, understanding strikes me like lightning, and I struggle to hold it in my hands. A true flash of fear in me, truer than any fear of any beast, for she is a monster with a face of a girl, and she is a monster I had allowed close to my heart. ("Fester, my darling.")

A last ditch effort, so I slide off of her armchair, and onto my knees. "Please," I croak. My lips are too dry. 

She sighs, and flips idly through a magazine. "It's not my fault you never listen," she says, not looking at me, cupping her chin, and she is so lovely then I could have devoured her.

"Didn't I say she would break your heart?"