I sometimes wonder if you ever wrote an ending to that poem. I always wonder why you still haunt me like a ghost.
What is it all coming to when I look at you and I feel nothing?
You have ruined me. Not because of what you have done to me, no, because I don’t think I could count on my fingers and toes the amount of
men people that have screwed me over. But because of the doubt you have instilled in me— about myself, about every other human being on the planet.
nothing like the feeling of a man telling you “it’s not me, it’s you”
Trying to recall all of our moments, (that’s just what anything is though, right? a moment? one after another? anyway.) — to figure out which were real and which were forced. And I come to realize, I have to assume every last one was forced. If someone can so effortlessly lie to someone else about something so important, why not about simple things as well? Then I move on to why? Why does one human being treat another with such little respect, little regard for feeling. I am reminded once or twice (or more) a day that people like this exist and not only do they exist but they are fucking everywhere.
I don’t think I am cut out to be anything besides single. I am up in my own head way too much. I over think little things and ignore the important ones. I am careless with my heart and seem to give it away to just anyone, with the hopes they will treat it well. But here is a spoiler alert for you: they never do. They are as careless with my heart as I am. They don’t see what they do to me. I am convinced they don’t care and more likely than not, never will. Why should I even try anymore?
Something lead me here, laying in my bed wrapped up in my thoughts of you. I can hear your rambling in my head. On and on about quantum mechanics or art or high school or cats — to try and fill the empty space. Awkward and weird, extremely incredibly weird but we both seem to like it. And for now all of this is okay with me.