I hate

how I toe the line

between wanting to forget you

and wanting to reach out to you.

I hate that I'm here

considering putting forth effort

when clearly

I'm no longer a priority in your life.

I wish we had a better friendship,

one that people envy and strive for,

and I wish I wasn't caught up in the indifference of you.

Because,

ultimately,

I know you don't care.

But something in my delusional brain

keeps prompting me to extend my hand

to the dog that keeps on biting me.

Plink...Plink...

This time, the sound was unmistakable. Someone was definitely throwing rocks at her window. She had dreamed of this moment all of her life. A handsome man declaring his love by damaging her parent’s property. Every young girl’s dream. She slowly walked over to the window, ensuring her hair and clothes looked good with every step she took. She drew the curtains back, opened the window, and looked out into the warm summer night.

“Sarah, I love you so much!” A young man yelled from below, he held a bouquet of flowers in one hand and pebbles in the other.

“You’ve got to be kidding...,'' she said under her breath. She yelled back, “Yeah, there’s no Sarah here, you’ve got the wrong house.”

“Shit,” the young man muttered quietly. She could hear the defeat in his voice as he let the pebbles fall to the ground. After a moment, he yelled back up, “So, do you happen to know where Sarah li---” Before he could finish, Celine closed the window and fell backward with the intention of falling onto her bed. She instead missed and slammed right into the floor, almost knocking the wind out of herself. The upstairs room thundered with the sound of over a hundred pounds crashing to the ground.

“What the hell was that?” Javier, her father called from downstairs. There was a hint of concern in his voice, but mostly anger for interrupting whatever important thing he was doing.

“Gravity check. No worries, it’s still there.” Celine yelled back, hoping to hear a laugh. Instead, she heard an audible sigh.

“Could you be a bit quieter when conducting your experiments next time?” Her father hollered back.

“Will do.” She saluted the air even though no one was there to witness the action. This joking banter was her favorite part of her relationship with her dad. He was hilarious and she inherited it from him. She inherited her clumsiness from her other dad, Robert. Even though Robert wasn’t related to Celine, she liked to think that she had aspects of both of her favorite men in her life. Just as Celine was getting back to homework, she heard the front door open.

“Javi, are you aware that there is a boy with a bouquet of flowers wandering around our yard?” Robert asked, keeping the door cracked.

Celine heard the table creak as Javier stood up. “I’ll get the hose.”

“No, no, no! What if he’s here for our darling daughter?” Robert objected, trying his hardest to not let love die.

Celine walked to the edge of the stairs, peered over the edge of the banister, and yelled down, “He’s looking for a girl named Sarah, hose him”.

With that, she heard Javier run through the open door with Robert in tow. She could hear both her dads laughing hysterically as the boy’s yelps quickly vanished into the night. She heard Javier outside yell, “Ten points for Gryffindor!” to which Robert replied with, “Don’t even bitch, you know you’re Hufflepuff!” Celine then heard Robert shriek because Javier began spraying his Ravenclaw ass with the icy hose water.

Celine’s life was not normal, but boy, did she love it.

Where did this sense of entitlement come from?

It feels like an epidemic that is sweeping the nation.

Students expect teachers to give them answers without even trying

and adults expect others to be at their constant beck and call

even though we all have our own things going on.

And when have tantrums become socially acceptable?

It feels like every day

we see men who were caught cheating,

writhing around on the floor,

crying and shouting at their significant others,

begging them not to leave.

Or a woman who didn't get to speak to a manager

screaming and kicking merchandise

which she will not be expected to pay for.

When has this become okay?

Why has this become the norm?

I don't want to be a part of these childish games.

Your pouty, shitty attitude is only welcome if you are two.

And that is only because we can say that the child didn't know better.

But we all know better.

So why are we no better?

I often think

about how I would destroy him.

I imagine him out at a bar

talking to a woman.

He has his hand on her thigh

and he's thinking he's going to get lucky.

And then I walk in.

I push between the two

with fire in my eyes

and poison on my lips

and I tell her all the things he did to my friend.

How he didn't hear the word no

and how he is the scum of the earth.

How he is a narcissist,

a gaslighter,

a manipulator,

an absolute fucking predator that shouldn't be alive.

I imagine her running from him

and the sense of pride I feel with

saving this woman from becoming a victim.

I hear him yelling at me

saying I had no right to say anything,

that it was a long time ago

and it's not that big of a deal.

I do not respond.

I do not fight with words.

What I do instead

is what I have wanted to do since the second I heard what happened.

Without a word

I slowly turn around,

take out a knife,

and cut off his dick.

If there were a book

that was written about my life,

I don't think it would sell well

because most of the pages

would be filled with depressive episodes

and days spent lying in bed

starving myself

until I can feel again.

Can I just say

how much I fucking hate being an optimist.

I know what you're thinking,

"Hey, that doesn't sound very optimistic to me."

Well, you're damn right.

I can't stand

how every time I know the outcome of something,

there is a small part of my brain that chimes in and says,

"Just wait, this time will be different"

And I get this ache in my soul

that maybe my brain will be right this time.

Maybe this time when I go out, I will meet someone.

Maybe this time, I'll get more likes on my writing,

Maybe this time, I'll get recognition for all my hard work.

AND BIG FUCKING SURPRISE,

IT'S NOT.

It's just never different.

I feel like Charlie Brown in every aspect of my life

trying to kick the football,

thinking that this time Lucy won't be a fucking bitch

and steal it right from underneath me.

It's always the same

and every time, my hopes are dashed.

But yet,

without fail,

no matter how many times I get let down,

my brain continues,

"But maybe this time..."

I don't want to handhold you through life

instructing you on what is right and what is wrong.

It surprises me

that something that should come naturally

takes years to dig out.

And I hate that the effort in making you suitable and palatable

comes from others

because you don't want to take the time to better yourself.

Why are we forced to care

more than you?

Why do we have to feel guilty

for not doing enough

when you do nothing?

Why must we bend over backwards

to help those

who don't even deserve our help?

While those who really need it are pushed to the side

begging on the outside to be let in.

I'm tired of being expected to force-feed answers to those

who didn't take the time to even read the questions.

This sense of entitlement that you have

when you put in minimal effort astounds me.

While we are out here,

busting our asses

to make sure you turn out to be decent.

It's exhausting to care more than you.