Narrow Mind

another vent. sorry, kinda. still sorting through stuff. 💗

The ache behind my eyes isn’t love. It’s fatigue. It’s tension. It’s disappointment wearing the same perfume every time.

I don’t know what I expected. I don’t think I expected anything good, but somehow I still manage to feel let down anyway. I guess that’s on me. So I lay there, headache starting behind my forehead like a firecracker, talking to you on the phone. Pretending everything’s fine. Laughing at the right times. Nodding even though you can’t see me. It’s performance art at this point.

Every time it happens, every time you interrupt me mid thought or go quiet when I’m talking about something that isn’t you, I think I’m ready for it. I think I’ve braced for the impact. And still it hits. Hard. But then something strange happens. I stop caring. The weight in my chest shifts, like a bag of sand tipping over. And I let it fall. I let it spill. I let myself feel nothing, because it’s easier that way. It always is.

There’s a version of me in some other timeline who’d beg for attention. Who’d explain. Who’d try to make you see it from my side. I don’t think I like her. She’s too forgiving. Too willing to wait for a reaction that will never come. You exhaust me. Quietly. Like a slow leak in a tire that no one bothers to fix because it’s technically still rolling.

I hate how everything I like feels like a monologue to an empty room when you’re around. Like I have to sell my joy to someone who never planned on buying. You’re not cruel. Not outright. That would be easier to walk away from. You’re just forgettable, in your carelessness. An aftertaste I keep trying to scrub out.

Everything passes. Everything fades. One day you’ll just be a line in an old journal. A paragraph I skip over when I reread it. A conversation I don’t quote anymore.

A memory without weight.

And that’ll be enough.