And I'm sorry
I'm sorry I didn’t call
I'm sorry I didn’t text
I'm sorry I let our trivia game expire
Or that I didn’t like you’re picture even though I was clearly online
I'm sorry for anytime I hurt you at all
Anytime I made you cry or even remotely sad
I'm sorry if I ruined your day
Or for all the nights I kept you up
but **** I'm sorry I couldn’t complete you.

I go to a party.
You ask to come along.
You join us, you make a mess, we leave and then return...
I try to help.
I always try to help.
I have to take you home, in the end.
You apologise profusely, but I deny your apologies.
I am happy to help.
I feel useful, for once.
Comforting friends is one of the few ways in which I manage to feel useful.
You get home safe.
I'm relieved.
But then she saddens...
She tries to laugh it off, as she says that she's not okay.
As soon as I let her know that it's okay to not be okay, she loses it.
I hold her.
I hold her so tightly.
I rub her arm and pull her body closer to mine.
She feels warm, but I can only imagine how cold she is on the inside.
I make an attempt, but I have no clue how to cheer her up.
If I'm honest, I don't think that she needs to be cheered up at all.
She needs to feel this pain.
She is so incredibly strong and I know that she should let herself feel it.
She needs to accept that it's over.
He's gone.
It's terrible, but he's ******* gone.
"It's sore, it's so sore," she tells me, through her sobs...
I pull her closer still.
I won't ever let her feel this hurt again.
I love her.
More and more friends gather around us and they all love her as much as I do.
As much as he should.
That ******* ****.
We cheer her up, temporarily, and she moves back onto the dancefloor.
They all dance and I go for some air.
They tell me that I am a man in their eyes.
I thank them, and I mean it, yet I can't help but feel sort of off...
I cherish their words, of course, but it shouldn't have to be like this.
I need a distraction.
Whether it be blood trickling down my arm, or smoke filling up my lungs, I want to **** it.
I want to **** this dysphoria.
This feeling of being wrong.
I'd love to feel right, for a change.
Why am I such an outcast?
I don't stand out, because no one sees me, but I definitely don't fit in...
I just want to be myself, inside and out, but I don't have the consent to do so.
They should've realised by now that this is what I need.
I need help.
I need more than just beautiful friends and family and alcohol and pain...
I need reassignment, not just reformation.
I need medical help, not just therapeutical.
I need love, not just care.
Love...
True love.
Sure, the thought counts, but I am in need of one ******* gesture.
One in particular.
I need it to be consensual.
You give me consent to kiss you.
I argue.
YOU DON'T WANT ME.
But you swear that you do.
"I don't want you to feel things," you admit, with tears flooding down your face.
Well, neither do I!
But I can't ******* help it.
I should really sleep, but now I need to feel things.
Something.
Anything.
Even if it is just the tears that I'm crying.
At least it's something.
But sometimes nothing is better than something.
I think we both need to remember that.
So forget your apologies.
I apologise.
I can't feel anything anymore...
I just want to feel euphoria.