The teenage syndrome, a collection of letters.

The asshole.

That Was All I wondered While I looked at him, feigning a blank stare. What he looked Underneath his hood. I adjusted What I perceived An Outsider Could have misinterpreted As A defensive posture. But then He was Riling Either ways. Why the hell did I come to his place in the first instance?
Oh, Come on". He says almost softly, Defeated.
I Awaited the Final nail to the Coffin. My back was to the Wall Which was further away. I could hear the Sounds penetrating through the it, Some telly Broadcasting Some Sport Show highlight.
I Sigh, Watch His Facial Expression As he continues.
This "thing" We've got going. Its not healthy, We both know it. He pauses again Breathing heavily in the Dark, the light From A distance Finding A spot to reflect On Close to our Surroundings. Dramatic In Effect.
"It's not All about Getting high or Coming over To my place Just so you could get fucked. We're going to need A little more than that. Scratch that I need A little more than that.
He places both his hands Into his Pockets.
I'm not gonna pretend I know what you need. He says softly With his Eyes to the floor.
The asshole.

Savage.
I hate Me When I'm depressed And I Swear You Have Every Right to Pull Any trichotillomaniacal, Straitjacket deserving Act (Most Of Our Interactions Certainly Warrants that) But You don't. Such A Good Thing That is, I hear Two Mad's Don't Make A Right.

    Puppet.

I get fuckin miffed When we talk and in the process explore the myriad variations of how shitty conversations can be. We flash each other our TM Coprophagus-grins because I am too "Play by the rules" (AKA startlingly lonely) and Maybe too Afraid to Call you Out on your Indirectness.
So yeah, i'm not The Stark, unvarnished, unsullied and blackmailed non-participant you'd expect I Should be.
But then You too, You say you've reached your limit (it's not you, It's me) and this "thing" we've got going? It's like touring round the world only to reach the motherload of bullshit accumulation. Oh, and That You don't care if to Me it's like Stockholm's syndrome. Who cares?
It's like you're always ready to Fall for every Clearly undefined, Miserly crafted ruse I reflexively cook up.
I'm like (boom) patellar reflex and You? You're pissed.

Solace.
"I wanted to tell you about it" it came along with the circly sort of bracket that accompanied text messages. I could see more texts coming up. Hesitative.
" You could have come up then , you know? I had so much to say.".
I gave out a slight whimper. My phone the only source of luminance in the almost dark room. He seemed so hurt.
"I'm sorry", I say. Pithy.
My fingers scramble wildly on my keyboard. I text, "I just get so scared I clam up. I'm selfish." Selfish.
My dimming phone lights up quick.
No, No, babe. Can I call?
Yeah. I text.
No sooner then, feeling my phone vibrate.

Written by @intheory.

Pixabysymbols

Lovesymbol