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I like you, okay.
And maybe if I weren't such a terrible person it could happen.
But since I am, and you deserve alot better, I'll walk away.
Except I know you get me.
You know you do, too.
And you let me in, despite it all.
But neither of us will say a word about it.
And you'll just watch me leave, won't you?
Because most likely the reason I like you is because you push me away.
Isn't that how it goes?
A)Maybe I'm only ever good for one thing.
B)And maybe I don't care.
C)And maybe this I doesn't don't matter at all.
When in doubt, always choose C.
Dear Love,
I keep looking for you trying to confirm your existence. Because I feel nothing. Are you real? Because I see you in the eyes of couples everywhere walking. But do you exist for me? How can I look for something I don't believe in?
Is there somebody else laying in bed watching their ceiling fan spin too slowly wondering if being alone is better than knowing for certain that love does exist and it is beyond reach? Does he have perfect hands? Is his voice soothing and melodic? Does he write to you too?
Love, are you well thought out or sporadic? Are you here and then gone, like the blink of an eye? Are you ever-lasting and never changing? Are you Hide-and-Seek or Red Rover? You are absent. I don't believe in you until you prove you exist.
I've got the scars to prove I'm actually here.
Maybe that's why you hurt so much?
You don't exist.
You don't exist.
You don't exist.
I am bleeding.
Again.
I am ridiculous.
STOP IT! STOP IT! STOP IT!
But I just can't help myself.
I used to just walk around - in a daze, like nothing ever really mattered. I used to just sit and stare and wonder without ever producing any results. I used to take the matters of life and death similarly, and very lightly. I used to be unable - no, incapable, of distinguishing the meaning of anything beyond the day to day monotony of indecision. I wasn't living. I was just being.
I don't think what I am is called being sick - even if that is what everybody says. I don't think that is it, because it is something I do to myself. And I don't let anybody understand because I don't want anybody to understand. And I don't talk about it out loud to anybody because I don't want to have to explain it to anybody. And I don't want anybody to ask questions. But I think I need somebody to ask something. Because the same reason I do it is the same reason I don't want to.
I am not an unhappy person. I just feel like there is such a thick barrier covering up that happiness that nobody can see it. I think sometimes I forget to see it myself.
It has been a year since writing this. And I have come back to the point where I started. It was up and down. And I thought it was fixed. But it is still very much there.
More than anything I wish I had somebody who could understand. I don't mean a boyfriend. I mean a genuine, real friend. Who I could talk to and who wouldn't judge. Who I could be my whole self with, and they wouldn't care. Who could help me by doing nothing at all except be there when I felt like spilling my guts {literally.} Why can't I find somebody like that? Why won't somebody just be there without me having to ask?
How is it that I am exactly what kind of friend I am looking for, but never enough to replace the void left by an actual physical presence sitting beside me?
You can hug yourself all day long. But in the end, there is still an empty space your arms can't reach, and the unending knowledge that all you're holding is your own broken heart.
