For months on end, I have sat and listened to my own uncontrollable, inconceivable wallowing, sugar-coated with the sickly and the saccharine optimism that I bestow upon myself. I have lost many things, many people, many traits and yet I cannot seem to pull away my mind from one thing.
For seven years within my formative years (perhaps even before that), I sat and wished for true love. And it came, and I pined, and he pined. But that memory, the sweet nostalgia that came with us growing up together was not enough for you to stay here, within the confides of 6 cups, where we look back at each other before the height difference and the personality changes, no it was not.
Then, it took me a long, long time to learn how to love, especially physically. My body was sacred to me, and though I was not opposed to sharing it, the trust that I enforce for it to be shared was grandiose. So yes, it took me two years to reveal all of me but I was simply waiting for the right time, the perfect time when you’d touch me and I felt like I would melt into your arms and never be able to solidify again. But the touch of my soft skin, our torsos warm and damp with beads of sweat was not enough for you to entrust me with your soul, no it was not.
I was not good. But if you call yourself good then, then you would have to call “her” good too, “her” the vindictive, jealous and judgemental type that for some reason took you, and the rest of them two years to resent, just as I had changed and formed the comfortability of zen within myself. I was argumentative. I was enthralled in self-doubt, and self-worry, influenced by the people around me, the media around me, even you that in order for me to be strong, I must overpower all, including you. You don’t want to be known as a coward? Then why did you joke, enable me to be who I was, why did no one step up against me to me? If it was that much of a matter that you have (two years later, albeit) decided I was not enough, then why am I less loved now, as a good individual then I was as a broken one? But no, the hardships we faced together, the difficulty that had encompassed us, and everyone surrounding us, that shared need for comfort for someone who truly knows us was not enough for you to let me change alongside you, no it was not.
For you to call me, or us a mistake, was bitter. Cold. That is not the man I have known and loved and trusted with my all for the last four years of my life, and yet you sit there and tell me you have found out more about yourself in the few months you toyed with my feelings than in any time in our relationship? And why do you think that that was a good thing? Why do you think that that is how you should live? I thought, by your words and my thoughts, that the constant need to grow, the constant dissatisfaction of yourself is masturbation? So why, tell me, have you turned into the very people who have hurt me and discarded me as soon as one mistake had happened? But I am still fighting for you, I am still here, accepting this new, uncomfortably sheep-like version of you and yet that was not enough for you to accept me even when I was and am at rock bottom, no it was not.
You cannot slow down, you cannot breathe without worry, your mind is scattered consistently, and I still want you. I still love you.
But my brain, as damaged, as messy and unchronological that it is, is brilliant. It is what creates, it is what helps me feel like a person. But that brain is too rotten, too tainted with “history” for you to admire or love.
You want someone with your virtues? You had them. You are just too deep in your own violent thought patterns, cyclical, cynical as they spin and spin and spin for you to notice that they are right there, right in front of you. They have the lips that you loved and cherished for so long, the eyes that you couldn’t stop staring at, the fingers that you used to beg to comb through your hair.
But you are right. I am defined by my own mistakes. And that is not enough.
No, it is not.
