when will my dreams become memories?

somehow it always starts with laughter and little attraction, and grows in a guessing game, a begging game, a waiting game, and ends on same path as you, my sweetest baby blue. My forever, the constant in my misery for past years, a part of me, like the ripple marks on stones. Everyone I've met since carries traces of you, like the same ability to make me feel wanted and simultaneously so small, same colour of your muddy eyes seep in my henna and coffee, like your starkly pitful demeanour that made me want to stay in different form, the unwillingness disguised into disgusting habit of avoidance. And I learned a thing or two from you, or more so after you, how to recognise a coward, how to run away from another heartbreaker, how to listen to the language of silent choices. I worry the projection of your silhouette ruins the possibility of something better, but its like your presence is polymorphed into my taste. Its you, always you, in varied quantity. You as usual, my favourite tragedy, my comical eternity, somehow hijack the new breaks in my heart and turn it into your kind of blue, the vast pale baby blue of empty sky. I have countless time turned to you, reach the sky try to hold onto something but it has always been dust, dust in my eyes reddening the whites. You have taught me cynicism my darling beloathed, you have ruined it for me love. You have ruined me from loVe.

"To love is to know" And I have an itch, a violent craving to be asked about my favourite weather and why my hands bled once.

I want attention and so much love but I question if i truly deserve any of it, if all my desires are just an extension of symptoms that rose from the neglect and hostility I survive, there is everything wrong with me. The things I think and do are so twisted that I can't even explain and be deemed normal. There is always guilt and a lot shame I carry, my back hurts, lately I refuse to speak up or care, for the love I had, for me. As if a revenge on everyone, but ironically its i who feels rotten and wronged by myself. It's not self destructive in a way that can be seen physically and understood. But its slow and poisonous and it has sucked life out me, in cycles, multiple times. And I fought I promise, I fought a lot but I'm so tired now, I can't go on any longer. Fragments of hope shimmer between the creases of my palm, can't wash them out. They are stuck like a minor inconvenience, like I am this thing I call life.