I miss who I was before I knew you. Not all the alcohol I drank to be numb, but the sweet girl that was just looking to be loved; the girl that would do anything to give love. The beautiful, milky white girl that had a world of colors behind her eyes, her laugh, her words. Now I’m a broken, fragmented piece of myself, only I can’t find all the shards to place perfectly back into their packing order. I flinch at your touch, even at your words. I question everything that floats out of your mouth before it even tickles your vocal chords. When you hold me, I feel vacant in your arms; a spineless creature tucking me into themselves, feeding off of any love left loss inside myself. You fed off of everything I had in me; any confidence or love I had for myself, you threw it on the floor like the many pictures I used to have of us that I had to rid my entire life of just to drown out the hurt a glance at them will make me feel. I miss those pictures sometimes, but I know I am better off kept blind from any ounce of happiness you ever gave me; those moments were too few and too far between, anyways. You were always too busy blaming me for your own crippling damage inside your head and heart, too choked by the dark, dirty water to even come up for air to see what you had caused up on the surface. And any time you let yourself open your dormant eyes, you refused to believe that you were at fault and only sucked more life from me, telling me it had been my fault and that I wasn’t easy to love. How could someone love something so broken? You made sure I felt like no one ever could, so how could I leave when I mean nothing to no soul left on this world you created in front of me? How could I just walk out so easily, when I had already been staggering for miles to try and find your heart again? Did I ever even really see it, or was that all part of the plot as well? I never meant anything to you; don’t go crying over spilt milk when you’re lactose intolerant.
You begged to see me, for me to let you in.
And I did, a little bit.
But you ran and you hid.
Each time I try again, to open up for someone new…
I have visions in my head,
Of them leaving.
Just like you.
why would you let me slip away so easily,
like you don’t know i will keep spiraling down without you?
I still wake up in the middle of the night and think about you.
The wound begs to be opened; Torments me to dive in.
Will I ever stop missing you, even through all the pain?
What is wrong with me?
Why am I even here?
Does changing how you treated someone really make the difference for them to see you differently?
Do you think it really makes them able to see your change?
How does that make you become the victim, because you made someone so unable to put their trust in you?
How does that make you the good one, when you are the reason anything is even like this at all?
Changing your habits doesn’t erase emotional abuse; How do you think that you are good, just because you claim it now?
You claimed that the whole time, until your guilt decided to turn on you and break you down; Why did it always take so long?
At least when I screwed up, I knew it; I came right to you. Why could you never do the same?
Maybe if you hadn’t lied right to my face so many times, when all I wanted was the truth, I would be able to fall into any comfort you may hold. But how do I know that you won’t pull everything out from under me, in an instant, like you have so many times?
You are not the good one, just because you claim change.
Someone good wouldn’t break someone down how you did, and still expect compensation.
You expect me to just respond well to you now.
Every time that I ever let myself get comfortable, you left the next instant.
And that is why we are where we are. That is why you are terrifying, just being yourself.
“Believe me. Please.”
There was a time where things were easy.
You didn’t have to beg to be believed.
I didn’t have to wonder or worry how I always do, now.
There was a time when I felt like I was what you wanted.
Where I felt like I was enough, and what you needed.
Now I am just a constant problem, and you nitpick at my bones.
“I promise. I want you.”
I waited so long for your words to be sweet.
I held on for too long, thinking ‘but I have changed, so maybe you can.’
That isn’t an excuse.
My fumbling fingers will never be able to turn your pages.
You are a book I cannot open, because I already know the ending.
And you are a horror story that never lets me sleep at night.