I’M SORRY

I feel like I am one with the cotton shirt I’m wearing. This great, sticky, prickly, down-your-collar, sweaty, mildew, dank cotton shirt.
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I’ve my own misgivings about MBTI, but the Mediator is one pigeonhole I’ve often been slotted into and I ashamedly agree with it.
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The Mediator! One that desires balance, one that desires no conflict, one that is an idealist set up for disappointment. Thanos would probably have been a INFP. (I draw the line at classifying fictional characters under Hogwarts houses)
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It’s the thing that makes me respond to insta stories like a dog with a tennis ball. Cute!! Oh god you can drum?? Play fetch? Wow!! You’ll be fine! ❤️ Looking good! Cute! Ayy bruh! Etcetera.
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It’s the thing that makes you apologise to others. Please like me. Please don’t leave, I swear I’ll behave this time. Please don’t lose interest in me first, let’s just lose interest in each other, together, at the same time. Please. I’m begging you. Please.
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Or, let me find out that you’re human and are mistakeful, and let that crash your pedestal to basement 12. But you probably won’t care because I’m probably not that important to you. Let me cry in front of you. Let me shame myself. Let me use myself as a punching bag. Let me grovel. It feels like a syringe into flesh, metal, bloody, foreign, sticky. Good.
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People call the act of apologising (first) “human decency”. Humility. Or weakness. Self-loathing.
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I’m the guy who steps into the circle, arms outstretched like a priest, woah woah woah, hey hey hey! Take it easy!

I’m sorry, mom. I didn’t like how you reminded me, minutes before my drum purchase, that I wouldn’t get to go to Thailand without that kind of money. I didn’t buy it. And I told you it was my money anyway and we reached the mrt anyway so I alighted before you could say anything.

I’m sorry, Rory. You were stressed and I made it sound like it was an easy job and maybe that’s why you were mad. I tried to give you a hug. I’m stupid. Dumb. A fat baby.

I call apologising a quirk. No, I guess I just want to call it a quirk. Job benefits, comes with being an INFP. Okay, self-loathing works too. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Can we be friends again? Please. I’m sorry. Fetch?
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It’s one of the rare things out there that is either your fault, or it isn’t, and sure as hell, it always is. If it’s your fault, you can control the conflict. You can say sorry. You can end this.
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You. Are. In. Control. Holy shit. That’s what I’ve been after this whole time. Control.
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Jesus Christ, this mildew smell’s been on all my clothes. Horrible.