i am choosing to let go of him in an attempt to recover some piece of myself that got lost among all the nights spent longing for him, spent staring at my ceiling, spent crying and fruitlessly begging for answers— but in so doing, i can’t shake the feeling that i am doing something irrevocable and wrong. like i’m giving up. and i see things that say “the right one will never give up on you” and it makes me feel like i have committed some cruel and unusual crime for which the punishment is eternal and chronically painful. for which the punishment is an eternity without him, or an eternity of him thinking that i wasn’t the right one because i gave up. but the reality is i tried, i tried so damn hard, i flailed and wailed and grasped for anything i could hold onto that could give me a reason to stay, and it was like trying to hold air or water or trying to keep a butterfly in your pocket for later, contributing to its untimely death. and i failed, time and time again, i failed and lived in that failure alone, breathed it in every breath i took, bathed in it, saw it everywhere, especially the mirror. it was mine— it became the only thing that was mine. i carried it, i carried it in solitude, i carried it in sickness and in health and through good times and bad, and it was heavy— it still is, i still own it, it’s still mine. it kills without rhyme or reason, and it’s killing is ironic because i cultivated it out of love, accidentally but surely. in order to rid myself of this murderous failure i had to give up on him, so how is it fair that i feel like i’m damned, like i have committed an act of treachery? how is living with this any better than dying of the other?
janainaart
andulkaphoto
vaporwave
germansingergirl
prguitarman
