In my stomach
On my mind
And every single time I hear your voice
A silent scream. A cry. A lie to myself.
I breathe. I try. I know i need help.
But to get it means to accept that I have to forget you. That I have to move on. That I have to give up.
I’ll never be able to do that. I know I’m not the one for you. But at the same time I know you are the only one for me.
I’ve been single for so long because nobody could compete. They never came close. I would rather die than be with anyone else. That’s what you are to me.
And yet somehow also death. Because while I know I’m lucky just to be able to know you; it’s killing me.
I’m selfish to think I could have more.
I’m stupid to think I could be better than the others.
I’m scared that this spiralling well of depression and destruction seems to have no bottom.
And I’m angry that I could say these things to you any day because you always cared enough to listen to me and yet I still don’t say it.
Because I’ve been the burden. Because it would make you feel guilty. You say you’re terrible but the truth is you aren’t.
You could have been happy many times over by now if I didn’t show myself back into your life. To say you should be happier, to say how I feel about you; like it should make a difference. To say that you deserve better.
Because you do. You always have.
But I’m not better. I just wish I was.
I’m the “nice guy”, the gentleman.
But I’m also a gentle man. A fragile man. Broken for no reason other than my own insecurities.
Because other people defined my worth.
And because I believed them.
Because they told me I was happy.
And I believed them.
Because I didn’t want to be the guy that just said the right words to get what he wanted.
I wish I could be the guy that takes what he wants,
doesn’t give excuses and doesn’t care what people think.
But not to you. Maybe it would work but I would hate myself for it. Knowing that you’re only with me because I faked my way. Because I lied about who I was.
That’s death too.
So I spend my time contemplating emotional suicide.
If I’m me, you’ll never want me.
If I’m not, I don’t want me.
It doesnt matter, it never has.
I’m not the right guy. For you or for me.
It’s Thanksgiving now. Strange how sometimes the things you’re most thankful for you don’t even have.
I write this as you sleep 10 feet away.
Might as well be 10 million.
I want to crawl into that bed. I want to wrap you in my arms. I want to feel your embrace. I want to be yours.
I want to spend the days giggling away and the nights talking until the sun comes up. I want to have snowball fights, and dance in the rain, and make you breakfast in bed and sweep you off your feet.
I want that because it would make me happy.
More than that though I want you to be happy. Even if it isn’t me that makes it happen. Im not destined for anything beyond mediocrity, but you…
You’re an angel illuminating the darkness, a beautiful oasis for the parched, a raging fire of passion and light that could never be extinguished.
You’re a butterfly with golden wings. And you fly higher than my net could ever reach.