I Have No Title

She sat in a dark room, with music playing, an empty pack of cigarettes had fallen at her feet. Her fingers brushed across the keyboard so swiftly the text struggled to keep up. She was poised for the anger, she knew it had to come. It always follows the sadness. She screamed for the anger and she shook with the need to feel the fury. She’d learned this lesson before, if you can get to the anger the hurt stops. Yes, she’d learned this lesson before. She was a self-taught genius in the world of hurt. She once joked that she’d write a book. It’s cute how they really thought she was joking. No, she could write a book, she should write a book. Something with a catchy title like “He’s just not that into fat girls” or “They’ll always just want to be your ‘friend.’” It would fly off the shelves and women would laugh and relate and she’d be understood. Isn’t that what she was chasing? The ultimate understanding? She went over it again and again with everyone. She calculated her moves, she leaned her head, she looked him in the eyes. She hates looking into eyes, but she did. They all encouraged her. Oh how she loved when they smiled and said “he likes you.” Those little whispers about how adorable she is, they had no idea she could giggle. She had forgotten she could giggle. She gets lost in memories of the nights standing at the bottom of the stairs and her brother telling her she deserves this boy who makes her feel this way. Her old friend telling her she was beautiful and worth it and he’d be crazy to say no. They all kept whispering “go for it!” So she did. She moved closer and she lowered her voice and he leaned in to listen. That memory, god she can almost feel it’s warmth. So she cries. She’s sad today. It’s been a horrible week. It began with a verbal assault that included every possible hurtful thing in the world. She was violated, she’d lost trust, in a matter of seconds she had been hurt by a shower of verbal bullets and she barely pulled through. She thought she could prove the shooter wrong. She thought that she could survive it if she showed him the things he had said were lies. If she could be wanted he’d be proved wrong. But, he was right. A week later he was right and she was left with that knowledge. Perhaps that’s why she keeps avoiding eye contact with everyone. She’s the liar. She made them believe that she could have it this time. She tricked her friends into seeing the best sides of her and now they are left with this broken side of her. The side they've never seen. She’s so sorry. Every time she crys she just feels so sorry. She’s sorry to herself because no matter how much she hates herself today no one should have to feel this way. She’s sorry to her friends who don’t deserve to have to watch her cry. They shouldn't have to comfort her. She’s so sorry for him. She didn't mean to spill her heart out and make him feel guilty. That’s not fair and he doesn't deserve that. Most girls just move on right? She should move on, he said no. But, no always hurts. Especially because she only actually asks once every couple of years. She knows hurt, so she doesn't let it happen, but she fell this time. This time she opened up to people and she took direction, this time she thought she might actually have the shot. She ran the play over and over again in her head, she stops at the point, takes one last breath and shoots. But, she didn't even get the puck, she tapped the ice to let the world know she was ready to take her shot, and he denied her the shot. That shot could have won the game. It could have changed the entire season. So she’s sad because she missed her shot and that asshole was right about her. She’s sorry, sorry for herself because she’s starting to see a major pattern. She’s sorry to her friends, because she’s taking this way too hard and even she’s annoyed. And, she’s sorry to him, maybe she will be his friend, because he’s wonderful, and better to be friends with wonder than not know it all. She sits in her dark room and she types. She cries a little bit more because someone once told her “crying is not a sign of weakness, since birth it has always been a sign that you are alive.” She’s alive, she’s sad, but she’s alive. She’s not angry. He’s not angry that she cares too much how can she be angry that he doesn’t care. It’s a story she’s lived before and she’ll probably live it all over again. Because that shooter was right and until she can tell him he was wrong nothing will ever change.