Thirteen

Suddenly I see. I see how you see things, how you feel things and a deep sense of despair washes over me.

I am a fool. I am a fool for taking you back the first time and I am foolish for offering you something this time. I am more than foolish, I am somewhat self destructive you could say.

You destroy me.

Utterly. With a single glance, a word not spoken, a text message unanswered and by reminding me not so gently that I am wrong. Or that I have something wrong with me, namely this feeling I have towards you.

I want so badly to get what I want, to have you take some of my terms. Then I will still have you. I will have a warm body to sleep next to, to cuddle, to taste and to play with. I will have an entity that I am acquainted with but I still have more to learn about.

I will have part of my home restored.

Only I see what you see now. I see what I have been thrown into and it hurts. It claws at my soul, I shake when I see that someone has become much more important than me. And you’re letting them. You love it. You have become their pet and I am just this fool, this idiot who believes that maybe just maybe something can be salvaged.

That my heart won’t go through the blender again. Like it has been.

That somehow you will suddenly feel how I do for you and you will want this.

Only you won’t. Because you don’t feel that way at all.

I don’t know why I am clinging on. I should just let go. I should cut and run, I should run you out of my home and my life. I should not be crying as much as I do and I should not be ripping apart on the inside.

Hope is a great thing, however, it kills.

You cannot live on hope when you have facts, when you have feelings and just blatant statements that point to the decision not in favor of hope. Hope is a liar and whispers if you just hold out a little longer things will be okay. Things will work out how you want them to and then you will be happy.

It doesn’t work that way.  I am old enough to know that it doesn’t work that.

What happens is that you cling onto hope so hard that when it doesn’t turn out how you thought, when it’s not okay, you crash so hard dying seems like a fantastic option. That everything is grey, food has no taste and who needs to take care of themselves? A shower just becomes a place where you can be purged of the feelings of hopelessness through burning water and where snot doesn’t get stuck. You can breathe and be crying at the same time.

I see what you see. I get it. My hope is dying.

My dream is dying, it’s dying to the applause of me trying to be a good person, trying to support you as much as I can and being torn apart by myself with a side kick of you. I get it.

I get it.

I am not the person you want at all.

And it fucking kills me. Along with hope.

À bientôt

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