tani

even if she doesnt even want me

I think i'm okay with that. I know i can channel all of this through art (doesn't mean it's gonna be good art tho).

Of course it hurts a bit. But i've really come to accept that it's the way things go inside to me, and it's not something bad as long as i can do something with that, not involving any hurting to myself (also this doesn't mean i won't seek for professional help once again, cause i will).

I can only feel sorry for my past self, but i know it's not really gonna change anything.

Sometimes i just feel like it wouldn't go as i think it would if i talked about it, but i know it won't happen. Then again it's not necessarily a bad thing, it just still feels a bit bittersweet in the edges.

This is more about the level of trust i will never reach with them, that i wish i could have had access to when i was way younger. And about healing that first to feel safe on the path of healing everything else i've been already trying to heal ever since i can recall. Because though i feel okay with it, it still hits me hard sometimes, and i know i have to fully process that in order to say i'm really okay with it.

am i the sweet childish smile,

the never denying company?

how do you paint my face?

am i the stubborn one

who can't recieve judgement

but is too fast to cry?

how do you paint my face?

am i the always-trusting

holding your hand as you talk?

para que las ramas de los árboles fluyeran

con el agua de los lagos

llevándose nuestras palabras

Vendiste tu casa en la ciudad

y mudaste tus libros

traicionando a los sonidos de la ciudad

tan rápido como dejarías de recorrer mis pisos de madera

Pero incluso cuando me cazaste como a un venado

con pupilas dilatadas

y hundiste tu harpón en mis pies

para que no pudiese huir

todavía necesito que me digas si estás bien,

que me cuentes acerca de tus carreras en la mañana,

que me dejes trenzar tu cabello,

que me cuentes si tu sonrisa alguna vez flaquea

cuando al caminar hacia el parque inhabilitado

piensas en tu mano

tomando una flecha

Because then it meant she liked it better than me. And I could bet, so much better than me. It meant that, somehow, all the time we spent together, all the things we did, the words we shared, the moments where we felt like it was the world against us, and it was, they simply didn't mean to her as much as they did to me. That after all, what was between us was not as beautiful, as bright, as promising and unique to her as it was to me. That now I have no idea if that was real at all for her, if it was just all in my head.

But over all, it meant that at the end, she didn't choose me. That I wasn't -I am not- really worth choosing. Because i can so clearly see, it wasn't even a difficult decision to do -to put me aside.

are they the same ones you liked whispering to me

in the sweet darkroom

on some adoring tone sparkling through your eyes?

are they the same ones you used to write

in a rush when words could only flow between us

as the night did too?