i like to write

I knew it would happen right then.

But god did it still hurt so bad.

It hurt like i would never be able to breathe again. It hurt like i would never be able to laugh again. It hurt like i would never be able to love again. It hurt like the sun wouldn't rise and i wouldn't exist and that would be okay because this pain is all i knew.

But.

The morning came all the same. The sun still rose and i still awoke and it didn't hurt as bad.

Part of me always knew it wouldn't be possible. Of course it wouldn't be, he could never love me, despite all his flowery words and kind affection, it's always been platonic. That's probably why it didn't sting as bad the next morning, because i already knew it would happen.

I knew he never really liked me that much.

It still stings, but I'll be okay.

Wise words from the man who raised me, but words that my mind ultimately will not accept.

How do I tell him I feel guilty simply for being alive? How do i tell him i cry myself to sleep, praying, wishing, hoping, I dont wake up? How do I tell him the guilt of breathing claws at my chest every second I'm conscious and I cant stop it?

I want to take the world as it is, and in return make it take me as I am but I crawl inside my skin like it would offer me any comfort like it could save me from having to confront the feeling of irrevocable and unfathomable guilt at breathing in air I dont think I deserve

I want to be okay and feel okay and act okay and mean it but instead I laugh off jokes about killing myself and hoping no one heard the truth behind them

I want to not feel guilty about anything.

I didn't think I would give in.

I thought my morals were too high and mighty, my pride too grand.

It seems my desire for attention outweighed any qualms I might have about you being a promised man. I just wanted to feel wanted.

I guess that's what I got.

You told me once, "don't fall in love with me" I know I am not the first you've charmed into your bed, and I know I am not the first to spend nights driving too far for too little, the moon judging me in its shining glory asking

why do you do this to yourself?

I lie awake in bed listening to songs too romantic for you to have dedicated to me and I think about the way your hands felt on my body, how your lips claimed me in every way and how for the first time in my existence I felt truley wanted.

The moon asks why I think of you and I see my breath in the cold air.

At first, you weren’t much. 

Not a spark, or a flame, or a precipice to hang over. 

You were non-existent and I say that but there’s no way to really be sure. Because I don’t know when this started. I don’t know if I can pin down an exact time or date to blame for the way my heart fluttered at the thought of him, to blame for the heat in my chest, to blame for the headache that pounded out the constant rhythm of “you can’t have him.” 

We met at a time where confused kid feelings got in the way of everything and we unmet at a time where confused adult responsibilities pushed everything aside. 

I loved you first. 

I say that because I know you never loved me. 

i can say that because of the way the words sting on my tongue when I know I will never speak them

I can say that because of the way i clench my fists but they never quite connect enough to harm

I can say that because of the bitter taste of the past that clings to my haunted thoughts, just barely drowned out by my own voice whispering to my heart to grin and bear it

I am made of bile

Raw. Bitter. Thick.

Unnatural on your tongue, unwanted but still in the pit of your stomach just waiting to break you down, to eat through you from the inside out, to end any thoughts that aren't of me.

I don't know when i stopped loving you.

Some time between deciding to change and knowing that wouldn't change anything but my own perception. Somewhere between the desert and the buildings kissing the sky in a city familiar but still half hidden. Somehow as I grew from a child to someone who realized I wasn't the same person that once thought so highly of you.

I am made of revenge.

Patient. Cold. Calm.

Where once there were thoughts of you being kind and gentle, there is only empty space, abandoned and alone. When once I thought of kissing you, now I think of anything but you. What was once arguments on how you didn't mean to hurt me, are now justifications of how you deserve to hurt as much as I did.

I don't know when i started loving you.

I want to go back to that moment, find that exact point in time and beat it to death with that obnoxiously spiked bat in the back of my mind. I want to hack it into pieces, end it, keep it from existence and make everything better. I want to be better.

I am made if bile and revenge.

I can say that because the words I speak are deliberate and bitter.

I can say that because the way i harm has nothing to do with my fists.