Giving Me Corrections

I think I am hurting myself more than anyone is trying to hurt me. I could have not inflict it, I just needed a reason to somehow nurture that twinkly blackness that consumes me in hate, rage and disdain.

I could have just kept the last bit to itself but the shoe doesn't fit. There is a hole here that I can't seem to fill, but a part of me, no, all of me is turning my knuckles white to grip that end of the cliff.

How are the two of you doing? I really want to ask, but I am afraid because I would need to divulge my crimes. This is your thing, isn't it? Making whoosh noises into these sort of things and pretend that the few grey pasts don't exist, me to you. It's like when you're about to get a paper cut, but manage to avoid it, just that tiny bit and you feel whoa, that was close. It's like that, isn't it?

I'm sort of wishing harm upon you. Just because this corner here is quite empty and because the gears didn't shift for me, it shouldn't shift for you either. But harm, nonetheless. Because you never thought to ask. Because you never thought to show any concern. Because you acted like a selfish prick. Only so you can run away unharmed. Uninvolved. And so you wouldn't be held responsible.

There, I think I've talked myself into it. Here's my reason.