i'm sad a lot, and that's bad.

accurate honestly i hate it, i realised i loved her it was shocking it's in bold it was overwhelming, i accepted what i felt and it became beautiful but so flighty i was overwhelmed with passion, it became solid again and i realised i would spend the rest of my life with her give her an arm and die for her, then she was gone and i was small again i was darker and i all i could think was i want you and i miss you, still want you is dull it's uncolourful it was just the numbness afterwards i just wanted to shut out the world hear you again, please come back is big it gets lower as it goes on i think of how i miss her and get lower everytime i desperately want her back and will, yell it into the sky, please don't leave me is my desperation to never forget the love and the feelings i never want to love somebody else, i will never fall in love again is my last yell to deny any feelings for anybody else, i am dedicated to you as the sun is to our ecosystem, i will dedicate billions and trillions of years to you if i must, you're worth it.

this was written as tags first and i posted it on my main blog this is why it reads awkwardly

i like it and feel like i should put it here 

I’ve had multiple romantic partners that have a name that starts with h!!! this doesn’t seem like an issue to you, but its really ufkcing problematic to me, actually

because the only one i care about is heather and as any nonexistent readers know by now i love her more than anything in the univers and i have a!! tag on my main blog #h and its all about how i miss her, really edgy photos, stuff, text,

and the unknowing or maybe one of the previous partners if they find me might think it’s about them!! and it’s a scary hypothetical, i don’t ever want my intentions to get mixed up, i hate misinterpretation

I’d like to have it as some kind of diary, and it doesn’t matter how low effort the posts are. I’ve just posted ‘I loved you, Heather’ before and I’ll likely do it again. I’ll put down whatever I feel at least once a day and not be sure if I want someone to listen or not

I have so many fucking feelings that I have nobody I could ever talk about to......or, maybe I just don’t want to. Maybe I’m just being a little whiny fuck. Maybe I could talk to anybody about any of this shit and get whatever sympathy I want, whatever hand on the shoulder, whatever support. But I don’t want it. I want to wallow in it and know it’ll never get better and I’ll never get over it because this fucking misery and depression is who I am. I’m not me without it - I’m a fundamentally different person.

What a fucking terrible thing. What a fucking mess. What a piece of shit. My life is fucking awful. I hate myself. I hate who I am and how I got here. I hate everybody I fucking know and I would trade them all out in an instant to have Heather again.

I know I’ll never be able to see her smile. I’ll never see any of her smiles, actually. I’ll never get to see a teasing smile - a smile after a flirtatious line or a bad joke at my expense is shared - a smile that seems like a joke but has warmth behind it. Appreciation for how we can speak to one another in such ways.

I’ll never get to see a gentle smile, a caring smile. I’ll never be able to be with her at my lowest moments, moments where I feel like I could just retreat back into the earth and maybe even try this before she grabs me by the wrist and uses all the passion she had for people to pull me out again. She’ll never look down at me with tears running down my eyes and give me a smile that speaks more than she ever could in how many hours I’ll be sobbing because I am a broken man. No smile that says ‘it’s alright now, let me take care of you for once’.

but whatever i’ve become now...no matter how much stronger i am, no matter how much less i get attached to things, it isn’t worth it. i would trade the last year of my life back to see you. just to be able to.

if i could see you again i would scream. i would scream until i bled and i would cry until my eyes were red and i would beg for you to stay. i would apologize for everything i ever did and i remember all of it now. every little fucking thing. i run every conversation we had through my head - it’s a 24/7 reel of misery and self hatred. hating myself screaming and bleeding.

how i would treat your ocs poorly sometimes because i enjoyed dramatic roleplays, how sometimes i would be so depressed i would ignore you...i’d just be melting into my bed, wishing i could vanish, and i wouldn’t come to you for help. you would have given it. you were so kind and i would fucking kill anyone that ever hurt you.

It’d be a bump in the road and barely a month later everything would be back to what we consider it’s optimal way of existence. It wouldn’t even be that important, and I’ve been hung on a single death for so long that I can barely manage to dredge out a memory where I didn’t feel irrevocable guilt.

The idea of an otherworldly force guiding you. The concept that despite your own existence, your thoughts feelings are movements, you are being led and your life has been laid out by a force you can’t be certain even exists.

For lack of a better term there is a comfort in this idea that all is certain from the moment you come into this life. There will be a human being you love that loves you back, someone entangled with your soul, wrapped around you. Digging into you like barbed wire into your own thigh.

There is a certain opposition to the idea of fate.

The idea that despite you acknowledging and owning your own existence, your own movements thoughts feelings and voice, you have not and will never be in total control of your life.

The idea that eventually an outside force that you can’t stop no matter how hard you try or attack it, you will have to face yourself. That everything you do is irrelevant because you will be grounded. You will meet someone who you may or may not love who will love you and they won’t go. You will die.

Everything I can create find or even vaguely enjoy isn’t as good as it could be because for however brief our time was I tasted it. I tasted everything I had ever wanted and now I can never taste it again because of how amazing and different any human being or creation can be.

Yes, I always knew this. Since I was young and thought that being by myself for all time that I would ever know could be fine, that I could always change myself if I disliked myself. That shortsightedness has hurt me, I believe. I assumed that everything else would pass if I could just wait and nothing was consistent, permanent, and inescapable besides my existence. I’ve learnt through experience that’s a falsification.

I am more than me. I live as the me that I know and exist as the being you knew. I live as the underachiever child who can’t remember a time when I wasn’t miserable to some degree. I exist as the unhappy girl who was all too melancholy and uncomfortable with revealing herself to you beyond the facade of stoic, quiet, and dull.  But you saw me for more than what I wanted you to see.

I exist as that girl that found you god knows how long ago now and pushed and prodded to open. I exist as the girl (that would never admit to such a thing, mind you) who would quit what they were doing to speak to you again about things that I remember more than I have any right to given what I’m known as now. Things that didn’t matter and seemed silly but felt so warming, filling, and happy to talk about. Maybe because it was just with you. Almost certainly, really. I appreciated what I rationalized as a deep friendship and hoped you would never think more of it than that. But you saw me for more than what I wanted you to see.

Yes, I exist negatively as well. The bad things come with the good. I exist as the girl that went through bad things, none of them a fault of yours, and couldn’t cope. I exist as the girl that didn’t know what to do now that you cracked my mask of non-emotion, apathy and indifference. I exist as the girl that saw it far too unbefitting to be true to my emotions and retreated again. The girl that went back into her shell, her impenetrable home. Her inescapable home. We stopped speaking because I was obsessed with the idea that you were so much more than what you were. That every step I took and every breath I had bothered you, that I was an overtly attached animal and needed to let you breathe.

And then you were gone before I realised. And I thought it was fine, almost. I assumed that it would pass if I could just wait and it was fine because I was the true constant. And then you didn’t miraculously reappear. And that wasn’t it, I believe. I think that my love vanished as well. My willingness to feel love, to love myself, to love others, to love the world. And it was replaced with something else.

Yes, I live like this now. I live as the hell-creature who refuses to feel love, feels sick at happiness and frightens themself with the idea of moving on. I live as that constant thorn in the side of everybody I know who needs to lighten up, get over it because teen love never lasts and I’ll find a lovely woman one day. This has become what I define as me. A static harsh mess of misery longing and stinging nostalgia for something that I lost, entirely of my own fault. I’ve learnt through experience that the emotion of misery is a constant. That’s how it is.

Wherever I go, I’m me. Wherever I go, there’s misery. I cannot escape from my desire to have you back, my desire to apologize for every single thing I ever did that either of us regarded as bad. That desire to hopelessly atone over and over. And I cannot escape this. I can’t see you again and I can only see myself because moving forwards isn’t something I deserve. And I’ll never be able to go for as long as I live. Which, to me, is all time.

I’m still here. Same as I always have been, same as I always will be.