Nothing

Nothing ever means nothing. When you ask what’s wrong and I say nothing? It’s something. It’s just that either I don’t feel like talking about it, I haven’t figured out how to talk about the something, or you should already know, stop playing.

Nothing is never not something. How much is left? Nothing is left. Oh, but the underlying “you ate it all” is there. The underlying “you drank it all” is there. The underlying “you KNOW you ate/drank it all” is there. The “you seriously expect me to think you don’t know what’s wrong” is there, running everything, ruining everything.

Nothing ever means nothing. What can I do for you? Nothing. There’s always something. Wash the dishes, rub my feet, clean a toilet, make some food. Stop asking. I’m going to say nothing because saying something will make you think I can’t handle whatever it is you’re foolishly trying to help me through. I’ve got this. But goddamn, how I wish someone would just bring me some fucking candy.

Not chocolate. Candy. Tootsie Frooties. Smarties. Starburst. Skittles. SweeTarts. Sugary candy that I have no business eating but a true friend would say here, sliding me a cellophane bag of sour straws and walking away.

What do I need? Nothing.

Am I OK? Sure.

Do I need help with anything? Nope.

Should I stay? Go home.

What do I need? Everything, don’t make me ask.

Am I OK? Far from it, don’t make me explain.

Do I need help with anything? Everything, I know you see this mess, figuratively if not literally.

Should I stay? Yes, don’t go.

Go.

Leave me alone.

I don’t need anything.

Nothing is wrong.

Everything is fine.

Fine.

Really. Go. Never mind.

I’ve got this. All of this. What’s wrong?

Nothing.

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