The Fuck Up

o.

I’m a fuck up.

In so many ways, that it literally fucking hurts to even look at myself sometimes.

Harley hates that mindset of mine, but he tells me to write it down every time I think it. That’s why he created the ‘fuck up’ jar.

“Just get some little paper, write I’m a fuck up on it every time it crosses your mind, and drop it in the jar,” he’d stated, as if it was the simplest fucking thing in the world to do.

I mean, it was—it is—but that didn’t stop me from thinking it was damn stupid.

I did it anyway, though. Harley has this way of making me do things even when I don’t want to, and I don’t even fucking know how.

All it took was him saying, “Please, just do it, Reed?” in that slightly exasperated, slightly desperate voice he had whenever he pleaded with me, and I was grumbling a whatever, fine.

We’re almost on our way to our third jar now.

I almost write those little I’m a fuck up papers unconsciously now, wherever I am, whenever I think it, and just bunch them up in my pocket until I get home.

There’s always at least one every day.

I hate making Harley sad whenever he sees them, but he’s the one who fucking told me to do it and he’s the one who made it a goddamn habit.

He should know that I can’t change; that I may never change. Even if he doesn’t know, one day he’ll realize and one day he’ll get fed up and one day he’ll leave me.

That’s one of the things we fight about most. The fact that I believe wholeheartedly that one day he’ll leave me. He says he won’t, and he says he loves me, and he says this and he says that, but he doesn’t fucking realize that it doesn’t matter because in the end everyone leaves you.

Just like Xavier fucking left me.