The Art Of Destruction

“Why are you being like this?” He asks. “Like what? Not so damn agreeable?”

I used every letter in the alphabet a hundred times over to spell out all the ways you hurt me, and I am still yet to hear any form of an apology.

My absence of happiness makes me question everyone else’s. ‘Why do they get to be happier than me? What makes me so undeserving?’ Maybe the fact that I am questioning it, is more than enough of a reason.

I am putting so much emphasis on feeling better without actually healing that I am terrified of the inevitable all-consuming disappointment that I’ll feel.

I did everything for you, I tried to be everything you wanted, so much that I didn’t even recognise myself anymore. And I think that’s the scariest part, I became an image of her and completely forgot the reason you fell in love with me to begin with.

During late nights, I find myself confronting the empty side of the bed.

But my bad days aren't just bad. They're days when I am drowning, and although I know that I should be treating my wounds, all I can do is focus on how much they hurt. Some days, the idea of drowning doesn't seem so bad.

I know what I need and funnily enough it’s not you.

I don’t even know what I’m fighting for anymore, it’s like all that I held dear to me was no longer interesting to you.

I fell in love with someone I could never have.

You were my salvation, in my darkest times you were the one that brought me to my knees and taught me not to beg but to pray instead. To pray for something better than what had been brought upon me, to pray for protection as I walk through the streets of life. You, the protector, the almighty giver of life where it seemed unable to live. You were the one that brought life back into me at a time when I didn’t know anything other than the numbness that filled my body and mind, so therefore I must be eternally grateful for you.