Congratulations. Once you said you would be the one who would inspire me. I told you that in order to do so you would have to break me a big time. And there I am. Scattered, shattered, smashed, dashed to pieces, crushed, crippled, numb, paralized, mute, unable to breathe or eat or sleep or live. So here I go, writing again, before the words building up inside me pull me under the illusionment of reality. I hope you’re satisfied now. Because the reason why I ended up half-dead again is YOU. For once in my whole freakin’ lifetime it wasn’t me who started chasing dreams, who created a make-believe of happiness, who built castles in the air, who had trust in childish, naive, desperate hopes instead of seeing the world in its true black, muddy, intoxicating form. For once in my life I could taste a lick of what they call happiness, and it was real, and I could touch it and feel it and hold it onto my breast lest it should want to escape. I didn’t overthink things, I let myself be guided by my instincts and my heart, which was blinded by my love for you. But now I can see what you’ve actually done. You took the pieces of my broken heart, pretending to heal it and then smashed the puzzle chunks into snowflake-sized shivers. Congrats. Nice job! You used to say you love me. You also said hurting me hurt you. But I can’t see your repentence, you don’t seem to feel guilt at all. Love has left your eye. Your feelings for me that kept me alive and reminded me to breathe have disappeared into nothing. The warmth that I felt when you cherished me in your arms has grown cold, the light in your eyes that made me believe I’m not so far for being beautiful than I thought has gone out, the fire in your kisses that used to make my spine shiver and my bones melt has burnt out. And I refuse to love you if it’s one-sided. You are too important. You meant more than my pathetic platonic loves, more than what I ever felt before. I loved you more than my first love. Can you imagine that? Of course you can’t. Because I’m not telling you anything. I can’t speak to you, hard as I try. Sometimes I feel like you don’t even know me. Once you said there’s no point in loving someone you know. I’m trapped behind the picture of me that I show to you and I’m afraid to step out from behind it. But I can see you getting bored with this reflection of me, when you’re not even aware of the fact that it’s only a shadow of my true self. You’ll get tired of trying to squeeze the words out of my throat, I know. You’ll get bored of who you believe I am. You’ll find someone better. More beautiful, more attractive, thinner, more entertaining, someone you can have an actual conversation with. Of course I’m jealous. Because I’m fucking scared to lose you, to be let down, to be left alone again with my nightmares telling me I’m useless. And I don’t want to remember you as just another boy who I dressed up to be perfect. I know you aren’t. And I loved you in your imperfect state, for your childish behaviour, for your mature thoughts, your honest personality, your seeing me lovable, your confusing words, your unfathomable looks, your impudence, your domination. I loved you for keeping me under your control, for making me feel as I’m precious enough to be tamed, to be guided. I even loved you when you caused me physical pain. But torturing my soul is more than I can take. Who is the torturer? My fears, my worries, you becoming careless and ignorant, me growing paranoid, demented, and desperate. The chains growing out of the hands of my past depressive self, who can’t afford to let me be happy, euphoric, ecstatic, delirious. They creep up around me, trying to strangle me. I can’t breathe, I can’t speak, every movement hurts, my smiles are fake, my voice lies, my eyes show no life. I only pretend to exist. I’m tired of it. I wish I could leave my pathetic body, which keeps me on this disillusioning earth, I wish I could set myself free of my physical needs, I wish I could fly empty and weightless. I wish love was enough.
/2010.07.17. 12:09/
