Could Care Less

Right on the tail end of having two deep conversations about me not caring enough, a small trigger was all I needed to know that I was lying to them, and to myself.

I care so much.

I thought I had buried it but little did I realise, it was just lurking below the surface.

Whenever people talk about Adelaide, I become anxious.

Whenever I talk to my parents, I become defensive.

Whenever I see my workload, I become uneasy.

Whenever the future is brought up, I become evasive.

Whenever someone who meant a lot of me is brought up, I recoil in fear.

Fear that for all the reasons that they no longer favour my presence is the truth, and I’ve become so adept at lying that I’ve played myself. There are a only a few things I am self-assured about and despite repeatedly reprimanding myself that I’m just being silly, what happens when I can’t even count on those attributes? My heart is bloody and raw from trying so desperately to piece together the fragments and yet it’s still not enough.

It’s never enough. Not even close.



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