I hate this. I hate this from the base of my stomach which is encompassed so nicely by the harsh sound of the word Fucking. The blistering uncertainty, the crushing dread. The sense of the inevitable sudden announcement that they've been mulling over this for ages. Not the you fucked up; I never get that far, but the you chose wrong, the I can't do this, the sorry for letting you try.
It's not even that speech that burns the backs of my eyes. It's the day or the decade before where I know something is wrong but I don't know what and I don't know how to hit the brakes on the oncoming car crash that is my heart.
This ought to be titled Impending Doom because I try to tell myself it's all right and it never is. (and this is what I mean when I say my anxiety is about every other time as well as tonight. I write so it doesn't eat me alive.)
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