Only Pain

I’m usually the kind of person that you either love or hate. There’s not usually an in between and sometimes I feel like even the people that love me, hate me too. I guess it’s a self-esteem thing but whatever the cause, I almost always feel like I’m burdening someone.

Scott McBadshot

I feel like I can do nothing but hurt you. The words that I use always feel pretentious and sarcastic, while the intent behind them isn’t meant to be, but even when I speak in a way that feels natural to me, the words ring like the bullets of a Gatling gun. They tear your flesh away until you’re just tattered muscle and decaying bone. I feel the occasional bullet ricochet in my mouth when it fails to exit and hurt you. My teeth clatter and my gums bleed but taking the words and bottling them up is much more favorable than letting them out to assault you in the most heinous of ways.

closeup photography of loser scrabble letter
Photo by Shamia Casiano on Pexels.com

The Riddler’s rhymes hurt less than the strings of words that I put together. I say that I’m just speaking my mind, but instead, it feels like I’m purposely and carefully choosing the exact words that will make you feel worse. Sticks and stones may hurt your bones, and I promise my words cut worse than glass. I don’t try to be a bad guy, yet I have this impeccable ability to make others hate me.

I’m the kind of guy that, if I turned up dead by the hands of some lunatic because I didn’t know when to shut up, no one would be surprised. I’m also the kind of guy who, if I did turn up dead, I’m sure only a select few would care… but even then, they’d get over it. The reason that death is such an appealing thought is because no matter what anyone says, I’ll always feel like people would be better off without me. My words are bullets and you are a paper target. I may be a bad shot, but I’ll get a bullseye eventually.

I often wish that I was either a mute or just plain dumb. It’d be easier than dealing with trying to fit into the pre-molded world around me. If I never spoke, sure I’d be stuck with my own thoughts and most certainly spiral into an uncaring abyss of suicidal thoughts, but at least I wouldn’t drag anyone else down. I’m the Captain Ahab to my depression and I don’t know who is going to overtake who first. If I was dumber, I wouldn’t care so much about the delicately constructed social interactions that I take part in every day. When a conversation ended, I’d be able to move on and I wouldn’t even know if I insulted them in the first place. Life would be so much easier if I could find a way to help and heal with my words instead of mowing down crowds at a time. That may not make me happy, but I’d certainly feel better about myself.

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