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It is so strangely empty to give up on somebody. You've done the fighting and the screaming, the whispered practiced speeches you said in the mirror and the crying in public places. the attempts at logic, the subtle sideways begging. And you sit in your cooling car or in the library or on the train and you realize - that was actually it, wasn't it. It's not worth it anymore. The remains of your relationship have been ashes for so long now - why are you still trying to call the fire department. Why are you doing this. You never walk out without shaking, and they always walk out having said the last word and struck the last blow.
And you think: when did it happen? When did I grow up more than you did? When did you stop trying to be a better person? Why wasn't I good enough to keep in your life? Were you ever listening? Did you ever care what was going on with me? Was I just around because then you'd have somebody on your side? Why are you like this? Why? Why? Why?
I wanted cutting it off to be cathartic. It was instead kicking a winter beehive. Nothing but a cold sting inside.
““I love you.” “That’s not what I asked,” he says and it’s like his eyes have hands of their own, hands that rummage around in your chest until they find your heart and rip it out through your throat. “I know,” you say quietly, “I know what you want me to say.” If you could cry you would, but the words leave you barren, leave you incapable of shedding tears or lies or some little bit of false hope that would stop breaking your heart and his in two. Your leg is shaking in a way that it hasn’t in a long time. Like it hasn’t since he was everything you wanted and didn’t need and nothing could dissuade you of the first or convince you of the second. “So say it,” he says, and you think the words are supposed to be angry, but they’re not. They’re choked and desperate and you think you could withstand his anger. But not this, not the way your words have wound themselves around his throat and squeezed until his windpipe collapsed in on itself. Maybe you are still in love with him. After all, if you weren’t, would you still be able to feel his pain like this? Feel it like it’s yours to carry and yours to heal? “I don’t think I can,” you whisper. He opens his mouth to respond but then your mouth open and runs away with all the words that you wish would stay locked between your teeth. “You don’t understand, I’m still trying to understand. I’m still trying to understand how I can look at you and want everything for you. And I do, I want everything for you - I want that 700 hundred dollar guitar that your dad won’t buy and for your parents to stay together forever and for you to be so happy that the sun is jealous of the way you smile. I want you to be in love.” Your voice cracks on that last word and he winces like he knows what’s coming next. “But I don’t want to be the one give you those things anymore,” you say. “I don’t want to be the one that makes you laugh or smile or write silly love songs. I did once, when I was -” There is a beat of hesitation, a space where your heart should beat but doesn’t. “When I was in love with you,” you finish. You still can’t cry but you wish you could. Wish these words released some of your pain without giving him anymore to carry. “I - ” His mouth clamps shut. As if his jaw is the only part of him with any sense of self preservation. He was always like that. Doing first and explaining later, like his mouth possessed every ounce of restraint that his body didn’t. He looks down instead and you can see the tick of his jaw, the way his back teeth grind against each other. Grind up the words that might hurt you as much as yours hurt him into nothing but dust. "Say it,“ you whisper. "We’ve never hid the truth from each other. Why start now?” He looks at you with an amount of venom that finds it way from the air to your bloodstream, directly to your heart. “I think I hate you a little bit right now,” he says but the words are as bitter as they are harsh. “But I guess that means I still love you a little too, doesn’t it?” The words don’t hurt as much as they should. Maybe when you’re in love with someone, their words are more than words. They are living, breathing things that inhabit some space in you. They are immortal with no expiration date in sight and the love gives them the power to ruin you or heal you. And maybe, when you’re done being in love with someone, their words go back to being just that. Words that can be swept up and abandoned on the side of the road because once upon a time, they might’ve meant something more. And now they don’t.”
— L.A.L. ||  The space between “I love you” and “I’m in love with you” || Prompted by someone behind the screen
““We used to be close”, I say, but what I really mean is “I lost her and I don’t know how to get her back”, it’s “I’m sorry, but I can’t even remember what I did wrong”. When pride gets in the way and it’s difficult to own up to your mistakes, we tend to bury our apologies beneath fake smiles and empty words we do not mean. Suddenly we talk about the weather and our jobs, about things we know no one really cares about, and then we talk about nothing at all, our silence filling the spaces we carved between our outstretched hands. Sometimes your name pops up on my facebook and it makes me stop scrolling, because I still want to know what you’re up to and it kind of makes me sad because it no longer feels the same. It’s like I’m looking at a faded photograph I can no longer touch, I can no longer be a part of. I still want to know if you’re happy, and I hope you are, even if your happiness lies no longer with me. Even if you no longer share it, telling me of your latest adventures, no longer whisper secrets that smell like red wine and cherries, I still want to know. You can avert your eyes and pretend that you don’t see me in the streets, you can block my number. You don’t have to say hello to me ever again, even though we never really said goodbye. I can’t take back the things I told you and can’t erase the way I know you and always will. The memories we made sit in the back of my mind like deadweight, dragging me down, but I can’t forget. I won’t let myself forget. All the writers, the singers and our mothers tell us about heartbreak and about love gone to waste. About the tears we will cry and how it will hurt but won’t matter years down the road. But what about friendships ending? What about friends turning into strangers? I wish there was a warning about some friendships coming with an expiration date. I wish we sometimes remembered that two people can part ways from one day to the next when they’d sworn they’d never end. I wish more of us acknowledged that losing a friend is as gutting as a failed relationship.”
— we used to be close / n.j.
“Perhaps the saddest thing of all, Is that for so long, I thought if you saw how you had broken my heart. If you saw what you had done to me, you would be overcome with this rush of emotion, that you would regret leaving me. You would regret that you had let the world hurt me. But now I know, that you don’t care that you hurt me. You only love yourself.”
— Excerpt from a Book I’ll Never Write, Perhaps the Saddest Thing
“Perhaps the saddest thing of all, Is that I think of you all the time, I think about your face, and your smile, I think about how your hair has gotten longer now, and how it would feel to run my fingers through it, I think about how nice it would have been, to meet your friends, and see your room, and what it would have been like to see you when you just woke up. I think about the future we could have had, and the dreams that never came to be, But most of all, I think about how you don’t think about me at all, not even a little.”
—
But that’s okay, I’m learning to be okay with it
Excerpt from a book I’ll never write, Perhaps the Saddest Thing
i am terrified to want things. wanting a thing means maybe-not-having it. but being unwanting in this world is numb, empty, a blank wild where desire is an outlier and to be thwarted. you can’t be let down if you never get up - but being here is lying on your belly in mud.
You are not worthy because of your job.
You are not worthy because of your education.
You are not worthy because of your relationship status.
You are not worthy because of a number on your exam or on the scale.
You are not worthy because of the part you play in society.
You are not worthy because of your achievements.
You simply are worthy, even if all the parts of your identity are stripped away.
Nothing and no one defines your worth but the mere fact that you exist. You are worthy simply because you are alive. And everything you are - without anything attached to you - is wonderful.
“I was afraid, deathly afraid that you’d leave just like everyone else. I wondered if today would be the day, or maybe tomorrow. It was inevitable. People always leave. So, I spent my days looking for a sign, some sort of signal to tell me you were on your way out. I tortured myself with thoughts of your departure, replayed it a thousand times in my head. And, you had no idea. You didn’t see how much my fear consumed me. You didn’t know how terrified I was to be left behind again. I just couldn’t convince myself that you would stay, because, honestly, I didn’t think there was much worth sticking around for.”
— @sixwordssayitall (via sixwordssayitall)
IG: sixwordssayitall
How do I stop carrying everything that has ever happened to me?
Blythe Baird, from If My Body Could Speak (via buttonpoetry)
Infj
Sensitive, empathic, and insightful, you care deeply about people, wanting to accommodate them on the one hand, and having strong visions that you desperately want to turn into reality on the other. Often preoccupied with mulling over your personal thoughts in your own head, others are likely to describe you as tolerant, courteous, and appreciative, but also a bit remote and dreamy. Thoughtful and caring, you have a well-developed facility for putting yourself in another person’s place and an instinctive understanding of how people work. Though you tend to spend considerable time fantasizing about how society could be improved, you typically refrain from arguing passionately in favor of your solutions. Instead, you prefer to influence others by gently letting them know how their individual contributions would be invaluable in the greater scheme of things.
“I care. It fucking terrifies me how much I care.”
— (via bl-ossomed)
“I will never feel as beautiful as I did when I caught the way he looked at me.”
— excerpt///56
