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“I’m trying,” Pete says, but he can tell they don’t believe him. He can feel them rolling their eyes, can feel their exhaustion oozing out of them. But they don’t show Pete that. Instead, they smile and nod and say they understand and offer him grace he doesn’t deserve and pretend that they’re not disgusted by him.
Because they are. Who wouldn’t be? Pete accepted that simple fact years ago. Trying isn’t enough. He tries and it’s not enough. Would it ever be? Pete doubts it. No matter how hard he tries, it’s all pointless. He’s pointless. He’s a pencil and he’s slowly running out of lead. After spending so much time scribbling and trying to get the right words out, he’s a nub, hardly recognizable and painful to hold. Useless. A worn down eraser makes his mistakes more noticeable. Tears paper. Leaves dark smudges, smeared intentions. Even if Pete can manage to make the words go away, they’re never truly undone. Remnants remain. They haunt him. Every mistake haunts him.
“I’m trying,” Pete says, but he knows they’re tired of hearing it. Even though he’s sincere when he says it, he wonders when exactly they stopped believing him. He wishes he could pinpoint the exact moment when they grew tired of his bullshit.
Because he is. Who wouldn’t be? Whenever he hears the words come out of his mouth, he wants to throw up. He knows he means them. He knows he’s trying, knows that he’s trying so goddamn hard, but the more he says the words, the more hollow they feel. He’s a bucket with a hole in it, apologies pouring out of him in a slow, helpless trickle. Even when he tries to fill himself up with hope and a sense of purpose, it leaves him. Vanishes. He can’t carry anything without losing it. Useless. What good is he if he keeps losing everything that has the potential to make him feel full? Broken things should be discarded, tossed aside. Save the space for shiny things that function properly.
“I’m trying,” Pete says, but he knows their ears must be ringing. They’ve heard it so many times by now, haven't they? Whenever Pete begins to flounder or whenever he’s struggling to breathe, he says he’s trying as if it’s supposed to make it all better. A bandage. An easy fix-all. An apology is a suitable substitution for change, isn’t it? He’s trying so it’s okay that he keeps fucking everything up. He’s trying so he should be allowed to keep the precious things around him that he constantly mishandles. He’s so rough on himself but so gentle with the things surrounding him. He wonders if they ever consider taking those things away from him.
Because they should. Who wouldn’t? He’s abrasive and exhausting. There are days he wants to crawl out of his own skin and rehome himself, potentially in a body that wouldn’t betray him the way this one had. He wishes he was softer around his edges, an easier pill to swallow. Instead, he’s loud. He’s a squeaky hinge, impossible to ignore and harder to live with. Useless. A little elbow grease, a little love. Something, anything, to keep him from squeaking. Shut it up. Shut him up. Every time he opens, another frustrating sound. Another excuse. Slam him shut. Keep him locked. Never allow him to open up again. Because he’ll never stop fucking squeaking.
“I’m trying,” Pete says.
“I’m trying,” Pete says.
“I’m trying,” Pete says.