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This Is Me Letting Go

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I used to believe in love that burns slowly. Kind, considerate, and respectful—the kind that thrives within healthy bounds. I always imagined that life with you would feel more like a voyage, one that was scenic, one that taught us how to behold. The truth is, I just wanted to be held, too.  What you did,  what you broke —it bleeds past the heart. You've shattered my idea of marriage. You've incinerated every innocent notion I ever had about exclusivity. Was I ever something you cherished? Or have I always been occupied like land? Did you think an apology would cauterize my trust? That time would heal something arterial? Can't you see? My wound is infected, my blood is septic, and I am dying. While you're on some existential journey with your therapist, asking yourself, "Why did I do it?" I'm passing from one world to another, trying to be okay with being disrespected.  In my heart, I know that it's over, and every time I let you into my home, it feels...
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I Write This In Hope That You'll See It.

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As I relentlessly pursue what most would call my delusion, I am far too yielding to you to let you go. This eclipse between dignity and infatuation cannot be explained, only justified to an unreasonable extent. Yes, I am running from something, but I'm still running to you. Yes, I am insecure, but only because I was taught to be. Where you see me clinging to fiction, I see my refusal to settle for what's in front of me.  Just to know you, to learn you slowly— that  is my desire. It's not about status, and it's not about appearance. It's about my enthrallment with your personhood. I'd never ask for more than one moment—one to listen, to be near, to be present—to show you more of myself in the hope that you'll see in me a glimpse of what I see in you.  Inadvertently, you've blurred the line between desperation and devotion. Whatever it is, I stand by it. Not because it's good for me. Not because I see a future. I'm still mulling over whether I even...
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In the Light of My Insignificance

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I reason at the brink of narcissism. This happened as a result of that , which only happened because they hated me, which goes back to the trauma from  this— Some might call it manifestation. If I think negative things, negative things will happen. Others call it karma—I deserve every inconvenient thing that comes my way. I suppose I believe that too; that's why I often ask myself, "What did I do to deserve this?"  Where is the logic in thinking that a Domino's delivery driver backed into my brand-new motorcycle because I did something that upset the universe? Or that the person I loved most only fucked other people because my anxiety dared him to? It's honestly pathetic to think myself relevant—that the stars could feel offended on an elitist's behalf. To worship my guilt and make my suffering proof that the universe has a conscience—is that not a mirage?  It's not spiritual to align yourself with the cosmos. It's selfish to think that your mindset—y...
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