Random Writings

No Longer

No longer can I make-believe that our fingers are interlaced, or that you spend your waking moments thinking of me.

I can't even tell if you miss me.

Part of me doubts that you do.

-

I wake up now feeling fragmented. Like a mosaic. Ever since I heard about her, there's been large holes in my core, in my existence.

I'm jealous of her, of the fact that you get to be happy. I never got that.

I'd built so much of my personality and identity on being part of you that most of myself was ripped out when that daydream was destroyed.

There's an emptiness in me where there shouldn't be, and I know I have no right to feel it.

-

From the start, I knew this was going to be painful, but held onto a hope that maybe, since you were younger than me, things would change.

"I'm straight."

It's that same fact that kept biting me, over and over and over, and that's bitten me so hard that I fear I'll no longer feel like myself.

-

I was the one to tell you that I needed a break. I think you were relieved when I said that. Both of us knew this wasn't working.

That didn't stop me from crying myself to sleep that night.

Writing things down is cathartic, but at the same time, it serves as a reminder of you. I'm not sure I want that, but I don't know how else to cope with this pain.

My therapist told me that until you and I reconcile, I should get things out. To write, to draw, to do the things I'd forgotten I loved while I was wrapped up in you. But most of the time, I just don't have the energy.

I'd forgotten that you supplied me with a certain energy, and come our separation, that became an energy that I no longer have.

-

Everything swings, like a pendulum, between me being happy, sad, and shoving other people away out of anger. I can't tell whether I'm angry at you or at myself most of the time. I think most of the time, though, it's at myself.

There's no getting around that this is my fault, and that I was the one who got myself into this.

If I'd never fallen in love with you, I'd never be in so much pain now. And maybe we'd still talk, and things would still be normal. I'd be able to tease you about her like there wasn't a problem.

But really, I'm just feeling sorry for myself, aren't I?

-

The energy that my pain filled me with has been emptied by my typing, and I think I might need to stare at the ceiling for a bit so that I can come up with more self-pitying reasons to write about you later.

Do you miss me?

That may become a question that I'll no longer receive an answer to.