I don’t know.

”I don’t know.”

 

It’s become a shield for me, a phrase behind which I hide when I can’t bear to face the truth. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.” I say it so much that it doesn’t have the same spicy sourness it did, years ago, the first time it rolled off my tongue. Saying it then used to taste like blood on my tongue. Now it tastes like mineral water- artificial, yet natural. Like it’s a part of me. But then again, I guess it is. Who knows how long I’ve been mining at my flaws, drowning in the pool of tears I cried for myself on most nights?

 

Not that it really matters in the long run. But who knows?

 

Who even knows what the long run is? People always say “You never know,” and then proceed to plan meticulously for the future they don’t foresee, the one they aren’t even sure exists. For they, you, I- we could die tomorrow, and then what use would your plans be?

 

It’s painful saying it to my friends, the people sometimes seem to care more than my own family. Maybe it’s proximity – they’re going through the same thing at the same time. Parents always say, “I’ve been through it, I can help, listen to me.” But years, even decades have passed since then, and it’s a different world now. With time comes distance, and detachment. Listening to them has its benefits but they don’t remember things as freshly as I’m experiencing them right now.

 

My friends… I feel so bad towards them. I have far too many flaws and they don’t deserve someone like me in their life – they deserve better, someone who they aren’t ashamed to introduce or go out with or just spend time with. Even sitting together sometimes feels like a burden. Add to that the internal commentary of the poison in my mind and I’m so ready to just give everything up for an eternity of damnation.

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quirkyteal

writer/stylist/dreamer sophomore | lasalle college of the arts

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