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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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Marigolds

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Marigolds were my favorite flower, but now they're a metaphor for the short-lived—and that's exactly what we were. Within a week, the petals withered and blight consumed each stem. I wish I'd thrown us out with them. I didn't because I'm not a victim, not this time. You did nothing wrong—I guess that's why I never fell in love with you. I'm masochistic that way—I only love when it nearly kills me. You didn't try, but we died anyway. One could say that we were incompatible, but we really did spend the best time together. I guess we were just incommunicative, despite the fact that we communicated every day, but never in ways that mattered.  You have this twisted idea of forever—that someone in this world owes you any satisfaction. You talk about commitment, but the only thing you're committed to is this notion that you're worth someone's life. You're not. The truth is, you'll never know the soul behind his lips. You don't even see h...
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