I am ruining everything for myself, and I don’t know why. Today, I realized that I am unafraid of a majority of what I thought were my fears. What I’m truly afraid of is my own self.
I’m afraid to tell you how much you mean to me. We aren’t the way we used to be. I don’t want to scare you off by admitting the fact that I don’t at all want to be without you.
I no longer want to force myself to be okay. Or to remind myself that things will be fine. I just want to know it, and to believe in it, and love myself enough to think I deserve to pursue my own personal happiness.
I’m tired of hurting alone. And I’m tired of wanting to reach out to someone who can easily forget about me.
And every little bit of me that thought I was finding myself, knows I can be wonderful, and feels every single ounce of ambition. Yet I come home to nothing but a constant need for affection. For something that isn’t there. For someone to want to notice who I am and who I’m trying to be.
You’re the one person I want around for the rest of my life,
and I know for a fact that it isn’t too soon to say.
Of all I’ve ever met,
I can’t help but to think you’re a greater version of myself.
I want to be the only hand you’ll hold.
You’re understanding of my outcries, my insecurities, my insanity—myself. I want nothing else but to be engulfed in all your scent
feel the very warmth of your bare skin
to scarcely brush my thumb over your right cheek.
I want nothing but to be with you.
So I punished you. I started fights with no purpose, cheated with no regret, and nitpicked until you hated to be around me. In turn, you lashed out or cried or panicked. And I took it. And you took it. And deep inside, we both hurt. Ultimately, the pain and suffering would reach a crescendo until the only options seemed to be permanent separation or death. For some of you, the choices felt indistinguishable. For me, it was more about filling a void. Like a greedy landlord, I didn’t care who moved into the space, I just needed someone to rent. If I felt like I was about to get a 30-day notice, I was already on the hunt for the next tenant.
I want to be someone. Someone who’s worth a stranger’s smile. Someone who makes you take a second look. Someone with depth, and character you’ll never figure. I want to be someone ravishing. Someone who could easily make you.
I don’t know what more I could do. You have no idea what it’s like to be around you. It’s almost as if we’d have switched roles. When others were present, I’d make sure they weren’t uncomfortable, leaving you to be a little less attended to. Today, it’s you who leaves me. You take care of everyone else more than me, who’s supposed to be more significant. And you know for a fact that I’ve been feeling alone, and yet, you leave me to myself. You choose to. Sometimes, it’s even as if I’m nonexistent.
Then you simply assume the reason I become angry is because I’m overreacting, and you find that the right reason to be angry yourself. You don’t realize that, when you overreact, I quit it immediately. And even when you admit to making a situation over nothing, I let you know I’m done ,anyway. I hate to say it, but sometimes, I wish I could quit you. Or at least be able to make you understand that there’s always a legitimate reason for the way I feel.
Please don’t ever wonder why I hurt you intentionally. I just want you to feel what you’re doing to me.
You made me feel unwanted, so now you’ll have to pay.
But the most terrible consequence of all, is that, so do I.
The more you cry about it, the more you care. And once the worst is over, and you know you’re loved in the same way you do, that happiness—even only for a second—is everything.
I don’t know what to do with myself anymore. I just want off this earth.
I want someone to talk to. And I know for a fact that you’re there for me, and I want it to be you, but what you need right now is someone who won’t drag you down with them. And that’s all I do to you—contaminate you with my negativity. It’s best to leave in the meantime. I don’t want to turn to anyone else but you.
Tonight, I am on my own.
When I die, I don’t just want people to recognize I was a happy person. I want someone to man up and let everyone know that I was sad and reflective, too.
I wish you understood that another person’s company, no matter who it may be, just continually kept me sane. Alone, I can only distract myself from my consciousness for so long. My thoughts are a complete wreck, and even with the sporadic bursts of heightened enthusiasm, I come back to this feeling. It grows.
There are days in which I believe I can rule the world. I am unstoppable, I am in full control of all that I feel. I am positive, energetic, and nothing or no one could possibly ruin me.
There are days in which I feel like there is no point in the act of living. I precede to tell someone an issue—someone important to me, someone relatively significant who has a chance to change it or at the least, give me hope. They either understand and sulk with me, think they understand and try to “fix” me with some cliche advice, or don’t understand and there I sit wondering why I even bothered. I then question whether it’d be better if I didn’t say a word in the first place.
I have a significant other, and boy, is he a dream. But a person can only carry so much of your baggage. To each their own. And the more important they are to you, the more you grow to put their happiness above your own; hence, disregarding what you feel, preventing them from perceiving the negativity that you possess, and making them more important whenever they’re around.
I don’t know what to do anymore. I feel inadequate no matter what position I’m in. Maybe it’s time I unscrewed my head by it’s hinges, that way, my brain could fall out. God, I’d crush it to pieces…Would that stop the aching?