Listen to the author read it to you
No, I get it. Don’t touch me, I’m fine. I’m in my 30s and I grew up in the sexually cannibalistic emo cliques of the 2000s that fucked with the emotional weight of borrowing CDs, so I’m used to this sort of coldness.
But I never trusted any of those people.
I trusted you.
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You who sat there and told me that I was comforting and made you feel beautiful and made you feel ugly and made you hate yourself and talked too much and was so sweet and you thought would be a good father and who was too self-centered for your love.
And sadly, somewhere in that plethora of paradoxes, you probably got me a little right.
But somewhere between Northern Lights, car rides, nights spent talking and disappointing shows, that all got lost in the ever-expanding gap between who we both thought each other were.
Now, I think that if I was about to get hit by a car and you were the only person who could warn me about it, I still wouldn’t want to hear your voice.
But I also still want to feel you holding me as the ambulance is on its way.
And it burns me up still because all I want to do is hate you instead of half-loving the memory of whatever we were.
This fickleness of feeling that you still inspire in me.
Fuck it.
Whatever.
It’s not like it’s going to kill me.
Ep. 27: Be cautious of overly generous men. – Inside the Mind of Daniel Thompson
You know the cliche of a “starving artist”? It me. Leave a tip if you like my work.
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