I don’t know how to make people feel things by anything else than by means of the english language. But I think I may have relied on words for too long, that I’m finally running out. I’m starting to speak in thoughts, in actions, in body language. I’m forgetting how to describe things in words. I used to be able to overflow pages and pages, and now I write in paragraphs. It seems as if words aren’t strong enough anymore. I guess they never were.

Maybe if I spent more time actually talking to the people in my life instead of writing about them on tumblr, my relationships wouldn’t be nearly as problem-filled as they are.
Or maybe not.

I’ve shed my tears and yelled out pointless strings of words, and now I just feel numb. They’re right when they say that silence is the loudest scream. I can’t mutter even a whisper because I’m scared of what will happen if I do. Nothing ever comes out right. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I suck. I’m sorry.

We have to say the right ones at the right time. Or we think we do, anyhow. Our curiosity kills us, but we can never get ourselves to ask the question. We’re so caught up on the perfect words that we often don’t say anything at all, and I don’t know which one of those is worse. Sometimes you have to be quiet, but sometimes you have to speak up. And it’s so hard to decide which side to lean on because you never know where it’s going to lead you or where you’re going to end up.

I wonder what you’d do if I told you every thought that’s in my head. I wonder what you’d do if I came running to you when I was upset. Would you think I’m as crazy as I feel? Would you brush off my feelings as pathetic desperation or would you actually care? Are you holding things in like I am? I don’t know. And I never will, because my chances have worn thin and I don’t want to bother you anymore.

Sometimes they don’t sound all pretty and poetic, strung together and edited over and over again. Sometimes they’re ugly. Sometimes they’re said in choppy sentences, or screamed and cried and blubbered like a baby until they don’t even seem to make sense anymore. And those are the words that mean the most: the words that others can hardly make out over our gasping cries. More than anything, we need someone to listen to these words, but not just anyone can get close enough to hear them.

And drinking isn’t really fun anymore and smoking never really was and parties aren’t fun and hearing about parties is even less fun and people aren’t fun, even friends and family aren’t too fun. Getting attached isn’t any fun but being alone isn’t any fun either and playing Monopoly by yourself isn’t fun and getting ready for nothing isn’t fun and seeing things online that you don’t want to see really isn’t fun. Homework definitely isn’t fun in the slightest and getting things done isn’t too fun and feeling like your life’s a waste isn’t fun and isn’t being a teenager supposed to be fun? The only fun things I can think of lately are eating and sleeping and sometimes I really wish that those two things could fill up a whole day, but they can’t.

It’s our inner demon that controls our every move and thought process. It turns us into monsters, it turns us into robots who follow instinct. We let our minds control us because when we fight against that control, we’re just left feeling completely empty and hollow inside.

I can’t tell the difference between my peers changing and my own opinions on them changing. It all just morphs together in this big web of change, and I don’t like it at all. I love someone one day and hate them the next, and I’m ashamed of how crazy that makes me feel. I wish I could just tell you every time I feel these strong emotions that tug on my heart strings like my heart’s a pretty little puppet, but I can’t. My words never solve anything because after they come out, I still end up feeling like there was so much left unsaid, so much that wasn’t understood, and so much that was taken the wrong way. I still feel the knot in my chest that screams at me for keeping so much bottled inside. But I don’t keep things bottled inside because I want to, but because I’m too afraid to make my voice heard. All of these words I wish I could say are building up in my throat like nicotine builds up in your lungs.

There’s hardly a person these days who will look someone dead in the eye and feel their hurt. I wish people would realize that when someone goes to you to vent, it’s not about you. I wish people would lend their ears as much as they run their mouths. Because it’s a beautiful thing to be really, truly listened to. And people don’t do it nearly enough. Some people just haven’t been heard in so long.

In fact, I probably won’t know what to say 99% of the time. I’ll probably just sit there, seemingly emotionless, when you tell me about your life and troubles, like I always do. I might spit out a few strings of advice that I think will help ease the pain, but honestly, my words probably won’t do a single thing. I can’t help you. I’m sorry I can’t take all of your pain away. But I can promise you that I’ll be loyal to you. I promise that if you ever need someone to listen, I’ll be by your side in a heartbeat.

But I just can’t. Even though I know it’s bad to bottle things up, I really do try to shut my mouth as much as I can when you’re around. And I’m not the only one. More than half of the people that care about you hide things from you, because they’re afraid of you. How does it make you feel to know that everyone tip-toes around you? How does it make you feel to know that you scare people away? You can blame the shitty lying friends in your life all you want, but it’s no one’s fault but your own.