I can still feel
millions of strings
tying my feet to the ground.
Why can’t I get back up?
Why can’t I soar up high?
Why can’t I smile again?
One of those strings is you;
Another is also you, telling me that
you cared about me;
that I’m too precious
to be hurting myself
Another is, once again, you;
telling me that when I
hurt myself, I am also
Another is you telling me that I am too much of a burden. Another is you telling me that my feelings are too much for you. Another is you telling me to stop trying to message you so much. Another is you turning your back away, telling me to go home when I told you that I needed to talk to you. Another is you, blaming me when I can’t meet you the next time because I was away. Another is you ignoring me on purpose every time we pass each other by on school corridors. Another is you only talking to me when you have something you need from me, and that something is always sex. Another is you telling me that my feelings no longer matter to you. Another is you telling me that what we had no longer matters to you. Another is you telling me that I no longer matter to you.
Another is you, telling me, to go on continue carving scars after scars on my skin and wishing for myself to die;
5 years have passed and I’m still trying to get back up.
I still trip every single time.
It should not matter to me how many times I have to mend my heart to be whole again, my dear,
as long as yours isn’t broken.
I’m better off without you.
You’re better off without me.
How come it’s still
you that I’m returning to
all these years?
Lately, I’ve been feeling slightly different.
I’ve been drained empty, like there’s nothing left in me. Little things still make me happy, like good movies and upbeat songs and painting with watercolor. But I simply don’t find the same joy in doing what I like anymore. Everything feels temporary, nothing ever lasted long enough to truly mean something.
I can’t write anymore. Last year I read all sorts of things; The Silmarillion, the Lord of the Rings, all sorts of fanfictions. I started writing then, because I wished to create a story of my own after reading so many good ones; but it doesn’t feel right now. I have trouble finding the right words when it never mattered to me before, I find it difficult to really convey what I was trying to get across, even when it comes to what I feel.
Every night, I feel like a lost little girl, not knowing where I’m headed and what I’m supposed to do. I’m supposed to find a purpose. I’m supposed to find a goal, a direction I’m heading to. Maybe I used to have it. Maybe I used to know what I want in life. But all I know is that I don’t anymore.
But what’s worse is that I’m afraid. I’m afraid of the fact that I think there is still at least one thing that I can trust my happiness with, one thing that still makes me feel… well, alive.
But after what happened, I know better not to depend on a person to be happy. Especially one that couldn’t care less whether I’m still alive or not.