How many people do you know that start a blog post on the verge of crying because their lover didn't call them to dinner? And then when you called them on WhatsApp to ask if they're eating they say "Yes, my friend's feeding me" and before you can ask them if they want you to come, they hang up on you. You're sitting there on your tiny table writing about it while thinking it was your fault for fooling around when they asked you to feed them (because they have been working real hard and you're really proud of them but their hands are covered in paint and they need you right now and you're not even there for them). They said that if you were busy with work they would go with their friends. How do you tell them that you're never too busy for them? To verbalize your devotion is a disservice and an insult because no words could ever capture the depths of your being so instead you decided to fool around and say all they want to do is hang out with their friends. You know that's not true, and that you were just fooling around, but right now you can't help but feel like you're a difficult partner and they don't love you anymore. You know it's stupid and you know you're just overthinking but the only comfort you've had consistently is the comfort in spiraling into your own thoughts. You hate yourself. You hate yourself so much right now. And if you hate yourself, how can anyone else see any good in you? Maybe there is no good after all, maybe you do not deserve any happiness after all. You remember how you said your cigarettes last longer than the presence of love in your life? Well, even the cigarettes have given up on you (or maybe it's your lungs... finally.) but all you can do right now is try to remain calm. You notice how your fingers are moving on the keyboard, how fast they're moving. You think to yourself "I've never typed this fast, have I? It's so cold right now... I wish they were here. I wish I was with them right now... Maybe I should go to them? But what if I'm not welcome anymore? Maybe I'm not welcome anymore. In the four chambers they own, filled with pools of blood - I am not welcome anymore." .......Now you can add another thing to the list of everything you've failed at, which is basically everything ever. You failed to be needed. If you're not needed, what are you worth? That's your only redeeming quality... to not need but to be there for their needs. You want to settle for being useful because you don't know what else love is. You're learning but it's difficult to bleed your heart out yet again because you're fucking scared. In the midst of this you open your phone and see texts from them and it stings you. It stings you like a nest of hornets. As if November wasn't cold enough already, they are too... at least for now. "At least for now"? You desperate imbecile... You'll cling on to the tiniest thread of hope you have... Since when? Or have you forgotten that whenever you cling onto the thread, the three old ladies are always right there, at the end of the street, ready to snip the cord and let you fall into the depths of Tartarus? You are a prisoner of your own mind. You can never break free. It's really funny too, the timing. It's been a couple months and that's just about enough time for you to end things. That's how you've done it in the past. But this time you have an inkling that you will be on the receiving end of those daggers that you so carelessly threw around when you were a young boy, when didn't wear any rings - because of how things have been lately.
Being hyper-aware and having an anxiety disorder is like knowing kintsugi but not being able to use it on yourself because your soul finds comfort in the shards of you that it has propped up like a tent. Shards that have cut you up on countless occasions. You don't want to think about it so you open Instagram but your feed is filled with posts and reels that you see glimpses of them in. So you come back to writing. You come back to stain the paper red because that's all you can do. But you don't even know how to write. You've never studied the art of writing. You selfish creature, you write only for yourself. So selfish in fact that you wish to grow a pair of wings right now and soar high high above where none of the pain of being human can touch you. You are also such a hypocrite because you preach optimistic nihilism in the streets, call yourself an absurdist on the round table, while if they found out about your real thoughts... the ones you have in moments of pure emotion and no rationale, they would laugh at you. Well... as if they don't already. You can't reach out. You can never reach out to anyone. You don't deserve it. You wish it had all ended when you overdosed on prescription medication under the influence. Or even before, when you crashed the bike and only survived for the fact that your mother convinced you to put your helmet on. Or even before, when you had dengue and your platelets were so dangerously low you had to eat kiwis for a week straight. Or even before, when you wanted to pierce your heart because some dumbasses on WhatsApp decided it was cool to cyberbully strangers. Or even before, the countless times you were abused, bullied and didn't have anyone to turn to. Sometimes you think that era was better because you were bleeding only for yourself. It was just you. To have people by your side and still fail, you'd prove to be such a disappointment. It's almost hilarious.
And yet, you cling dearly onto the thread still - you hope the three old ladies have lost their scissors by now... or maybe it has lost its sharpness. And at the end of it, you remember how you were supposed to write a cute little lovey-dovey post but this is all you can write right now and this is all you're worth. You cry about love and happiness but you keep forgetting you only accept what you think you deserve, and then at the end of it all, with all of this still heavy in your heart, you think "Maybe I should go eat now..."
Have you ever felt that way? Yeah, me neither.
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