When a military fires all of their ammunition, what comes next? A silence that's thick enough to choke on. There's a quiet, almost peaceful atmosphere around it- for a mere moment. Then, that army is torn to shreds by an artillery shell for being improperly equipped. After that, all that's left is the remains of a battle that will never see a mention in the history books.
That's what conversation feels like for me- my words are my ammunition, and when I'm empty, my throat burns like a spent barrel. I fire them at people who don't even raise their shields. They just stand there covered head to toe in Kevlar. Oh how I wish I could claw it off with my long nails and pierce them with what I have to say. Make them hear me, even if I have to carve my words across their chest. I want to make them bleed a little bit, like I do every time I'm thrown aside. It's worsened when I realise they've been looking over my shoulder the whole time, seeing if they can spot a friend as an exit route. Just give me the rocket launcher to shoot down your helicopter. I want you to stay with me!
Despite this, I wouldn't call myself unlikeable; my mother always told me that I don't need to fit in, I just need to be myself- to be Amy. It couldn't be my fault anyway, after all, I rarely make conversation difficult, it's probably something wrong with everybody else on Earth. How could it be my fault? I follow every rule: smile (but not too wide), ask questions (but not too many), let them steer the conversation (even if that's away from me). I'm perfectly polite, so why do they still flinch? And if they refuse to see that, well, let's just say some armour is only bulletproof from the outside.
Remember what Mr. Jones said: ''inhale for four seconds, hold your breath for four seconds, exhale for four seconds, rest for four seconds''
Maybe I was too harsh on them. Maybe they're right. Maybe I'm the problem. Maybe it's me.
There's always tomorrow to try again. Reload. Re-engage. Fire