I miss being happy.
I can’t even feel like love letters or movies or poems or music are from you, to me, without me realizing that you wouldn’t write that to or about me. It would have been about her. I was the second place championship. The one to fuck, but not really give a shit about.
And, it wasn’t just you. It was him, and him, and him. I’m the “good enough” while the girl you try to make jealous watches from a distance. And, when each one of you realizes too late that I was the best that you were ever going to arrive at. That always takes the cake. The desperation and anger when I finally decide to leave, to abandon each and every one of you, as you did me. That’s always the hardest, because I do care. You don’t, but you don’t want to lose the attention, the safety net to hold up your confidence. Each time, it got easier though, because I learned I was better than what you offered.
I’ve tried for years now, to convince myself that someone would love me, for me. That someone would stop taking advantage of my heart, my feelings, my soul. That someone wouldn’t abandon me.
Well, here I am.
I can’t trust any of you fucks anymore. And, for that, I’m sad. For that, I will probably remain single, or in some unfulfilled relationship, that I just act out my role.
I guess that’s what life is, isn’t it?