1:32pm: Second mental breakdown. It’s been three hours. He’s definitely not interested. Why am I like this? What is wrong with me? Does this mean it’s over?

2:01pm: Should I ask him what’s wrong with me? It’s definitely over.

2:19pm: Third mental breakdown. Now crying. Now desperate for answers. Now checking my phone every other second.

2:28pm: He’s typing something!

2:29pm: “Yeah definitely, I had a good time too. I’m free this weekend.”

Challenge

does this mean it's over

Buttercup

54 reads

Learning to love when you don’t love yourself

My anxiety texts you at 2am

(and 6am and 8am and 10am and 1pm and 5pm and 9pm and 11pm)

I am waiting for you to tell me that it’s over

I was too much

I was not enough

I spend nights panicking

Writing pages of insecurities

My personality, my sexuality

You are one of the best things that has happened to me

I do not want to be one of the worst things that has happened to you

I vomit my fears on you

I cry in your arms for hours

(you won’t let me run away)

(you won’t let me cry alone)

I am terrified that you will see me the way I see myself.

You meet the fears with kindness and understanding

You don’t mind the stains I’ve left on your shirt

“The way you love me is enough”

“The person I love is the person you are”

Challenge

does this mean it's over

7v7

16 reads

Rolling Over

In a sense it is over, in the fact that it isn’t. An opportunity lost, is past. A figure out the door, has parted. An idea forgotten, is gone. Hope remains, a constant recourse, but what might reenter is never the same... unless it was all the same before.

* * *

Sharlot peaked out from her corner of the sheets. There was a large obstruction, in the shape of a well stuffed burrito. She couldn’t make out any body part of this self-wrapped man. She gazed at the ceiling. All sorts of immediacies made their demands: she needed to pee, her left side was asleep and needling, and she admittedly wanted to shut-up the alarm clock before it haranged-- herself, namely. She had some minutes on her cellphone about to expire as well. She rolled out of bed, and didn’t look back at the unmade sheets.

* * *

But you did! Sharlot peaked out from her corner of the sheets. There was a large obstruction, in the shape of a well stuffed burrito. You anticipated, a human being. You’ve no doubt read descriptions like this before, in passing. Here you might have returned to pause... was it a stranger? a lover? a brother? Who were they to one another? She couldn’t make out any body part of this self-wrapped man. She gazed at the ceiling. But you lingered on the man. What was he like, that she should be so stingy in her description. Uncharitable, even. She gazed at the ceiling. All sorts of immediacies made their demands (like little villains, you ad libbed, these physicalities within herself being so absorbing as to rob her of more sensitive feeling): she needed to pee, her left side was asleep and needling, and she admittedly wanted to shut-up the alarm clock before it haranged-- herself, namely. Yes, you could see she was only into herself, far before then, before her added justification. She had some minutes on her cellphone about to expire as well. Too busy to say, “Good morning,” even. She rolled out of bed, and didn’t look back at the unmade sheets. It might have well been an empty bed, you said, and you turned the page over, again, while yous sat up and adjusted the pillow behind your head.

06.04.20

does this mean that it’s over challenge @ColdRamen