Consumed
It’s funny. We’re five years later, and the torment is still there. The only difference is that maybe—just maybe—now you know that you haven’t met anyone who deserves your love. You love so hard, and so beautifully, it’s fucking painful to watch from afar.
Who will love you like that in return? Is your lesson one of letting all this love fall towards your own self instead? Instead of fucking waiting for someone to do it on your behalf?
I know, I know—it’s way less lonely being acknowledged by someone than by your own self, even when it’s wrong, even when it’s not done right or is painful, the way you yourself show love for others. That will always be my curse: loving more than being loved, seeing more than having been seen, feeling every fucking little emotion everyone around you feels, without having anybody to feel it all for you or have them feel all the feels that consume you.
And that will keep consuming, till you disappear—just disappear.
