Rescue.

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I realize that the love I deserve is much larger than the love you reluctantly hand out. And I’m tired of compromising, I’m tired of telling myself that it’ll get better, because I know that it won’t. I have searched for the answer in myself, and I know it.

I should’ve known the moment I saw the way you look at her.

She won’t pick up your pieces. She can’t fix you, you are broken beyond repair and you look for surrogates to hold your pain but you will never understand how it feels to conquer the sinking of your heart. She can’t help you, because she won’t. She doesn’t care. She never will.

I refuse to sit by and watch you allow yourself to be captivated by a lost cause because she is. And you are.

I am in awe at your ability to break those who have faith in you. Those who would go to the end of the world to save you. Those that would never doubt you. I am in awe at your ability to spite them.

You refuse to think of consequences, life is just a game, and you don’t know what to do or what to say. I’m not the only one that’s tired of your need to break those who would sacrifice for you. I am stranded with the ache of your confusion, and I know that my heart cannot contain your restlessness.

However, I’m shocked at my ability to feel the need to rescue you. Forget rescue you, rescue myself. Being around you was enough to make me let my guard down, to give up all thoughts of sense, to give up every emotion I had worked so hard to compress.

Why am I not capable of understanding that you can’t fix me? It’s not just you. No one can fix me. I cannot allow you to be a stepping stone to the goal of my survival. I am not a half that needs to become whole. I am already complete.

Everyone I’ve ever loved has been a way for me to fix myself. I have seen my pain as a beautiful tragedy, and love as my bitter remedy. I’ve realized now that if I keep my heart open, the price I’ll have to pay will consume me. Even the broken pieces of my mind and soul will turn to dust eventually. And after years of searching for the answer to my emptiness, I know it now.

You cannot be wrapped in a whirlwind of intense amour if you aren’t besotted with the complete being that you are.

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Indifference

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Broken bones are often shattered on pavements. Broken hearts are ripped apart on top of souls of men and women that are accustomed to indifference.

We spend our days trying to fix shards of emptiness created by words that humans have woven to create harm, to subtly destroy and to malign every positive opportunity that one can obtain. We live our lives based off of opinionated stares, so much so that we forget that the only way to the zenith is if you never look at the ones that are dragging you to the nadir.

We pick ourselves up only to break ourselves down again. Our ribcages are suddenly walls that we put up, our dreams are trapped inside of our guards and we’ll never be willing to open the doors. It’s as though pain has become habitual, and suddenly sadness is the only thing we aren’t blocking out. It’s easy to allow ourselves to get used to the searing damage that words cause us. It is easy to allow ourselves to accept opinions as facts, like what others say is suddenly a defining factor in our ever-changing lives. It’s easy for us to layer bricks of happiness in order to squash our melancholy.

We’re hell bent on telling the world that we’re sad. We’re hell bent on showing them that weren’t not. A cry for help is no longer a cry, but a joke, and they all stare at your scars like you needed pity but all you wanted was to feel alive. To feel like you were at the top of the mountain, screaming till you could feel your lungs giving up, screaming till you felt like yourself again.

They ask you why you did it. You look at them. You say it’s simple.

“I didn’t want to be me anymore. I didn’t want to live while I was trapped inside the darkness of my being. I didn’t want to conform to what you wanted me to be.”

They don’t understand.

What’s love when the world is spinning and they shut you out. What’s love when you’re crying, and they think you’ve lost your mind. What’s love when instead of comforting you, they’re your worst nightmare.

The night is your escape. It drags you into a solace you could never feel around those who you feel safest with. They always leave.

It’s easier to accept that it’s your fault. To feel lesser and lesser with each one that bids you adieu, to feel emptier each time they say it’s them, not you. They want to build you up, only to pick you apart.

Chaos isn’t beautiful, they say. But I am.

Fallacy.

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I’ve been wondering how you have the ability to recklessly judge my character,

When you know my world revolves around your opinion,

When I’m ready to beg at your feet;

You tell your friends that you don’t want to be with that type of girl,

And I was confused because I didn’t think I was anyone but myself,

That I was some sort of reckless fallacy,

But you did.

All you could tell me,

All you could say was that my actions were a bullet in your heart,

Yet you knew it was you who shattered my soul,

And I believe that you would take me back if I stopped giving my body away,

But you never did.

 

And the irony was that the same boy who would beg for my body,

Would hate me if another did,

And that somehow I was at fault for being promiscuous,

That what I did with my body was for society to determine,

But it’s not.

 

And so now that you can’t look me in the eyes,

Know that my body was never yours,

And it never will be;

Because I’d rather be a fallacy than deal with your never-ending tragedy,

And even though I loved you,

I think I know better now.

You.

I’m tired of not knowing what we are. I sit here and contemplate whether you even want me, failing to realize  that want and need are two different things.

See, the difference is – I have grown to need you. I have grown to need your presence in my unruly life, grown to need everything that you give me, the happy and the sad. I don’t think you need me. I don’t think you want to need me.

It’s different with you. I’ve become hopelessly infatuated with a boy that could care less, and I keep letting myself fall for your reckless reassurances because I don’t know how else to feel. You can’t give me what I want, but do I even know what I want?

That’s the saddest part. I don’t know what I want from you, but all I know is that I want you. I love you. It hurts to say it, as though saying it can mean finally accepting it and maybe if I say your name enough times it’ll feel like honey instead of razor blades.

I’m sick of it. I can’t handle loving you anymore than I can handle hating you, and I’m tired of constantly dreaming about your hands around my waist. I’m angry at myself for staying up till 6 am, with your face plaguing my thoughts. I’ve forgotten what a good night’s sleep even feels like.

You don’t even realise it, but you are what has always made me happy. For the past year, I have thought of you and only you. Unfortunately, it’s not been the same for you, and it breaks me to this day.

You broke me, and you didn’t flinch. You were okay with losing someone who loved you, even when she had come back to you numerous times. Even when she would take a blade to her heart for you. Even when she loved you more than she loved herself.

As I write this today, I have reached the point where I am ready to say goodbye to you. You have brought me a different kind of heartbreak, one that I may never recover from. One that’ll haunt me for years to come.

You see, you left my heart stranded. I can’t blame you for leaving me. I would’ve hated you if you stayed. I hate you now, for giving me hope that there is good in you, hope that you care about me, hope that you would someday come back to me.

I’ve been living on a lie for months now. You see, I don’t think you ever loved me. I don’t think you know what love really is. I would sacrifice myself to the Gods themselves, just to see you happy. My death would leave you a happier man, I’m aware. And that is why loving you is breaking me, and today, I need to say goodbye. I need to stop loving you. I need to.

I thought you were “The One”. A romantic idea that has now become dead to me. The idea of love has become dead to me. Lately I’ve realised that I’m never going to find the type of love that you can move mountains for. I’ll keep chasing after should have beens and the ones that got away, forgetting that they’d never even shift a chair for me but I’d break myself for them.

The truth is, I’m undatable. An enigma of uncertainty, of toxicity, of self-loathing and neediness. I needed you, and in doing so, suffocated every ounce of happiness you have ever had. That’s why I look for the opposite of myself in boys that wouldn’t care even if I asked them to. I looked for happiness in you knowing you already have it, forgetting that you can’t love me unless I learn to love myself.

You don’t want to love me anyways.

Keep.

I can’t seem to shake you. It’s been years, and the ghost of our memories haunt me like they want me to feel for you, but I’m left with nothing inside.

I can’t bring myself to love you again. Not because I can’t, not because it’ll break me, but because I don’t want to. You are no longer what fits into my definition of love. You haven’t been for a long time.

You see, I think I kept holding onto you because you gave me everything when I felt like I had nothing. You gave me purpose when I felt like mine had been tossed out to sea.

And now, you give me anger. You give me drunk texts and sordid pleas for help in finding someone to love but you don’t realise that no one I can give you will love you. No one I can give you will love you like I did, because no one can.

I say this with the strongest conviction, because I’ve learnt that every love is different. You see, you haven’t been my only love. You haven’t been the only one I can lean to when I’m in despair. In fact, now, you’re probably the last one.

Each love shapes you. It builds you and breaks you in ways that probably didn’t even exist before you met them. In ways that probably wouldn’t exist if you didn’t let them. The way I loved you, will be miles apart from the way the next girl will. She will take you and make you into a new being, she will give you everything I couldn’t and more.

But you’re impatient. You’re erratic and irrational and you want me one day but the next day you don’t. You refuse to realise that I’m not here for you anymore. More so, I’m not here to be your resident matrimonial guru or easy sleazy booty call, because I can’t. Because I don’t want to.

You ask me for things that bring me pain, say words that resonate in my mind for days to come and then apologise profusely as though it would counteract the ache that runs through my veins.

Some days, you don’t apologise at all.

People wonder why I let you back into my life constantly. I wonder as well. I’m beginning to think that the “soft spot” I have for you is just an excuse for me to walk back into the fleeting happiness you gave me. I can’t keep doing this anymore.

I can’t keep you anymore.

Impulsive.

He’s too shy to tell you. He’s got a heart that blazes for every inch of you, but he will never tell you of how his mind is seeped with thoughts of the sweet nectar that you speak, of the waves that ripple through your hair, of the love that he wants but is too afraid to ask for. 

He’s never going to tell you. You look through your conversations as if this time he’s going to tell you that he loves you but you know those words will never leave his soul. He’s trapped in his own worst fear, and you solemnly acknowledge that even if you say something, he’d never say anything back.

We’re all too scared to tell the people we love how we feel. We’re always hesitating, as if anything bad could ever come from giving love to people instead of the hate that is prevalent in this dismal world. 

Rejection is our only fear, it is the only barrier that keeps us away from bliss and it is tiring. It’s tiring that he won’t tell you how he feels, or that she didn’t kiss you when she had the chance, because what if we stop being friends? What if the whole world finds out?

It’s as though letting people know our happiness is a disaster, but it seems to have become so, and there’s nothing we can do. As though life could end if people found out about the truth, as though there’s a death wish in being passionate. 

There is nothing and no one that can discount your feelings except for you, because when will you realise that love is fickle but it’s meant to be, and if you don’t say something now, you probably never will. 

It’s never been difficult to be impulsive in anger. Why should it be difficult in brazen, unapologetic and beautiful love? 

It shouldn’t. 

Accepted.


I’m tired. The world simply is no place for someone that seems to dip into the lows more than highs, that seems to wreck herself and salvage the pieces all in one night.

The world is too strong for people like us, who wither and wilt at the first sign of danger. We’re not ready for what’s about to be thrown at us. I doubt we’d ever be ready.

There is little worth I can bring to my own life. I am stewing in a pot of my own misery, waiting for a day to come by where I’ll get saved.

Yet, I fail to realise that I am my own saving grace, that no knight in shining armour can ever exist and that the world is a deep vat of agony but if I stir long enough, it may change into acceptance.

We’re not always going to be this way, you know?

I think the thicker skin we build, the harder it becomes for people to break our walls. We are nothing but a wall of opinions that we have created by establishing ourselves as slaves to the needs of others.

And I confine myself to these sordid ideals, refusing to own my heart and wear it on my sleeve. Devoid of any emotion.

Haphazard thoughts are the only constant I have left. Maybe, I can understand myself if I think less, talk slower, walk quicker. If I do what they want, I become what they want. I become what I want.

Accepted.

I’m tired. The world is no place for someone who refuses to fit into a version of perfection.

The world is no place for me.