It is fairly obvious than I am not a healthy individual. I am jealous, insecure, self-loathing, depressed, suicidal, apathetic, distant, [I want to say pudgy], incompetent, and acerbic. That I recognize these things does not necessarily make them easier to cope with. I can recognize, for instance, that I feel immensely hurt when you pay attention to others before me because I 1) am insecure and fear you don't truly want to pay attention to me and 2) irrationally believe that you could do things differently despite no evidence to the contrary. It is so vital to you that I trust you, and yet I often find myself asking "What if it is all a lie?"
But it still hurts to see you in pictures with your arms around others, with them writing you messages of adoration, with so.many.people.loving you. I *know* I need to believe *you* first in lieu of my own demons, but it's really not about you. It's me.
It's me seeing rolls of fat on my stomach because I've gained 5 lbs.
It's me tearing down every picture of myself because I can't stand to see my face [or have it be seen].
It's me fantasizing about digging my nails into my face until blood runs down it in thin rivers.
It's being incompetent at even simple tasks.
It's not caring enough to get better.
It's feeling dead until I feel someone else's hurt, and I can feel alive again.
It's so much more, of course. And even now, it's better than it has been before. But my need for you is desperation. You make me feel real. You draw out more smiles, more laughter, more tears, more desire, more pain, more pleasure, more joy, more sorrow than anyone ever has. That I have been thrown into such melancholic thrashing is insomuch as your absence killing me. Or returning me to the dead.
I relive you like trauma. Again and again, I see your famished and fearful eyes devouring me, lips trembling before mine, inch by inch closer, as you melted and your boiling remains washed over me. And as our scabs were torn open, our pain flowed anew and in it we were inseparable in a joy so foreign as to be miraculous.
But we do separate. Again and again, I look down again and kiss you, one last time, in the dark rain. And you leave.
I started dying, then. I inhaled your eyes, your lips, but a small part of your unknowable intensity and doing so I breathed in life. But now, my tanks are low. These petty jealousies and fickle thoughts are gasps for air, searching for you amidst the vacuum your lips last left.
I'm dying. And as I claw and atrophy, I want to stop this infinite decline and trade one asphyxiation for another. I want to die, not dying. I want to breathe so deep that I will gasp no more.
I don't, of course. For though dying, I will not die. The undead need not air; they feast upon those who are alive. Never tasting with their own tongues, never feeling with their own skin, never loving with their own hearts. They feed and stumble along, recalling life in memories and fantasies.
I have held my breath for so long, surviving on the lives others. And in these moments, when I gasp again, I wonder if it will be the last. If I will have lungs to fill, if you're ever back to fill them.
But it still hurts to see you in pictures with your arms around others, with them writing you messages of adoration, with so.many.people.loving you. I *know* I need to believe *you* first in lieu of my own demons, but it's really not about you. It's me.
It's me seeing rolls of fat on my stomach because I've gained 5 lbs.
It's me tearing down every picture of myself because I can't stand to see my face [or have it be seen].
It's me fantasizing about digging my nails into my face until blood runs down it in thin rivers.
It's being incompetent at even simple tasks.
It's not caring enough to get better.
It's feeling dead until I feel someone else's hurt, and I can feel alive again.
It's so much more, of course. And even now, it's better than it has been before. But my need for you is desperation. You make me feel real. You draw out more smiles, more laughter, more tears, more desire, more pain, more pleasure, more joy, more sorrow than anyone ever has. That I have been thrown into such melancholic thrashing is insomuch as your absence killing me. Or returning me to the dead.
I relive you like trauma. Again and again, I see your famished and fearful eyes devouring me, lips trembling before mine, inch by inch closer, as you melted and your boiling remains washed over me. And as our scabs were torn open, our pain flowed anew and in it we were inseparable in a joy so foreign as to be miraculous.
But we do separate. Again and again, I look down again and kiss you, one last time, in the dark rain. And you leave.
I started dying, then. I inhaled your eyes, your lips, but a small part of your unknowable intensity and doing so I breathed in life. But now, my tanks are low. These petty jealousies and fickle thoughts are gasps for air, searching for you amidst the vacuum your lips last left.
I'm dying. And as I claw and atrophy, I want to stop this infinite decline and trade one asphyxiation for another. I want to die, not dying. I want to breathe so deep that I will gasp no more.
I don't, of course. For though dying, I will not die. The undead need not air; they feast upon those who are alive. Never tasting with their own tongues, never feeling with their own skin, never loving with their own hearts. They feed and stumble along, recalling life in memories and fantasies.
I have held my breath for so long, surviving on the lives others. And in these moments, when I gasp again, I wonder if it will be the last. If I will have lungs to fill, if you're ever back to fill them.
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