Posted in Random, Thoughts

Dear Darling,

I hate you

You came into my life out of the blue, and I think you’re going to disappear without a warning one day

And yet you crashed in like a burning meteorite. You caught me off guard with your tale and how we can relate to each other, you disarm me with your sweet words and the way you care, you captivate me with each little things that may means nothing to you but means the world to me. And I’m trapped, can’t bear to resist or run away even though you consume me with your flame.

I can’t even begin to comprehend when did it all became a part of my routine, this chat of ours that seems to never stop. I don’t know since when I start my day with a good morning to you and end it with your good night. I have no idea how you suddenly know about my daily life better than anyone.

It’s unfair, really.

Here I am, insecure and unsure of myself, stumbling over my own words to keep your interest, to keep the conversation going because I’m scared that once it end, it may never start again. I wait for your chat, hoping for a reply every time I check my phone. I’m restless when you suddenly disappear for quite a long time, and I found myself checking your other social media to see whether or not you posted something there. It really doesn’t take long before I start to miss you. I wonder if you feel the same.

Maybe not.

It’s just draining, this feeling of me being the only one who cares too much. That I’m the only one who ponders over every post you made, biting my lips when it seems like you’re in problem but can’t bring myself to ask because I’m scared you will only shove me away. That I’m the only one who wish that you think of me, that you need me, that you want me the way I do for you.

Do you know that I’m currently an emotional mess? I started crying, heaven knows why, and I suddenly feels suffocated. My tears won’t stop flowing and my own thoughts are choking me. But I can’t tell you, because I’m afraid and I don’t want to. Maybe it’s me being selfish, maybe it’s just me and my greed for more. I know I should be content with the way you’ve listened to my endless unimportant rant all this time, that I should be grateful because you’ve told me that you’ll be there for me to talk to a few times already. But I want, I need, you to care. For you to ask “what’s wrong?” or “did something happened?” because you saw a post that I made somewhere, because you senses that I’m not okay. And that’s why I turned off my phone without responding to your latest chat, because I wish that you’d care and ask me about my whereabouts.

Is that really too much to ask?

It probably is, now that I think of it. I mean, who am I to ask for such things? I’m not your girlfriend, I’m not your family, and I’m not your best friend either. I’m just someone that you met on the internet, and somehow we started a project together and that brought us together, in a way. That’s it.

Beside, I’m just me, plain old me, not striking or beautiful or talented. Not a prize that you would willingly coveted. I’m just a wreck who can’t seem to do anything but whine about my life. I’m just a clingly little bitch that needs your devoted care and attention. I’m just someone who refuse to try or actually do anything with my life and the opportunities that it presented. I’m hard to please, and I don’t know when to stop from wanting more. I can’t read between the lines, I’m too blunt and insensitive, and you would be disgusted if you ever know the dirty thoughts I kept in the closet at the back of my head. I came with a heckload of emotional and physical baggage.

The worst is, I can’t even tell you that I’m worth it.

Because I don’t think I am.

But then again, it’s probably just me, reading too much into your words and kindness, grasping for strains of hope when there is none, expecting something that most likely would only happen in my dreams and imaginations.

At the end of the day, I’m just someone that you actually started talking to a little more than two weeks ago, and had somehow became dependent to you in those short time.

So I hate you, really, for making me develop this attachment to you, despite knowing that I willingly surrender myself to be bound with barbed wire that would only scarred me.

 

 

 

 

À la mort,

The girl who fell too deep

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Author:

An emotionally invested enthusiast of pop culture. Apathetic by design. Aesthetically offensive and eloquently candid. A sentimental heathen.

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