To the lady who told me to sort myself out. Who said just stop drinking.
To the man who told me I should cheer up. Who said it might never happen when it already had.
To my father, who told me how quick I would forget our fight as though he didn't know it would keep me up for weeks.
I answered politely at the time but afterwards I almost wished I hadn't. I didn't thank you for your honesty, or believe you really did just 'try to help.' I don't think that there was any real care in you, just a morbid curiosity and certainty that you were right and I was wrong.
I should've told you what I thought. I should've said you haven't got a clue and if I could change myself like I change my fucking socks I would. I let you go on thinking I was something broken you could 'fix' with your shitty little comments and condescending look. And you kept me up that night wondering if you were right.
God forbid you say the same to someone less reserved than me.
No comments:
Post a Comment