I have never met anyone who can make me sadder than I can make myself. I’ve got to learn to better own this particular truth. I do not want to.
It’s a very hard kind of sad, because it’s a sad that never had to be. It’s a sad that makes you want to disappear for awhileforever.
It’s usually born of haste, of mistakes, of things said, of things left unsaid. Sometimes, it’s born of anger, of shame, of your secret-self-loathing.
Sometimes it’s just a really shitty fucking day that, somehow, flew off the rails and exploded into something ugly. Maybe you exploded into something ugly. It’s the kind of day that you tell yourself you couldn’t have stopped if you tried.
Then you remember that you didn’t try.
When all the day is done, and all the time is up, all you’re left with is a sad.
A hard kind of sad. A sad that never had to be. The kind of sad you’re left with because you