I really did love you

Everytime I end a relationship I wonder, did I ever really love you?
Then I fill myself with hate, by releasing all my hatred towards you. Perhaps it is a kind of self-mechanism to protect myself from not being able to pull out from that broken relationship.
Now that I think back and listen to the song that once belonged to only us, drunkards in someone elses house and kissing on Christmas day.
I don’t miss the way you treated me, but I do miss us, sometimes.
Just to be together with each other every day and spend time bantering with each other… I just miss it, sometimes.
I will try not to think about you, but then again, I really did love you.

The ocean between us

The ocean can sometimes be merciless, the only thing that created the gap between two people.
The ocean between me and you existed for so long, I half expect it to stay there permanently, to the constant dividing.line that splits one into two.
We say we love each other, but now winter is coming, but neither of us are willing to swim across the ocean.
Because it is cold and there just enough to convince ourselves that it will be worth it to die in it all alone.
Perhaps there just isnt enough.

Outshone

Perhaps it is because deep inside we are all attention-seeking poor souls who deperately feed on the attention we get, as if it was the only food we need to depend on to survive.
Outshone.
That is the word I would use.
The feeling that the spotlight was no longer on me, the jealousy that slowly seeps into my tar black soul… the strands that blind me with green.
I feel forgotten, as if I was nothing more than a toy that has been put aside by a little boy, just left in the corner.
To rust.

I yearn to call out and to yell into a microphone the words I Am Here!
Yet I remain silent and smile as sweetly as I can manage, to put up a good show, as someone steps up and takes my place on the stage…

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The fake smile

Flesh Wound

When you get wounded, the blood gushes out. You can only put pressure on it and hope that one day the bleeding will stop, and that you will still be alive when it does.
Then it finally stops, the gushing and the life that was trickling out of you. Gone.
You start to feel better, even optimistic. But perhaps optimism is a drug for the hopeless, it poisons your mind into thinking that “Everything will be OK”.
Until you realise that the wound is festered. Until you realise there is something worse than dying due to heavy blood loss. Until you see the pus seeping out, oozing out of your wound to torture you. The infection pains you even more than the wound did before, it was as if someone rubbed salt into you wound, the tiny explosions of every single molecule in your gash was unbearable, and you make a decision
A clean cut.
After a while it will heal, you think.
After a while it will return to normal, you think.
After a while that gap in your wound would be filled again, you think.
But the cold truth will always freeze your soul: There will always be that grotesque dark scar that clings to you where the wound once was.
Even if you cover it up with new skin, or fake skin, when you close your eyes, you will see it in your mind.
You will feel it, for it is now a part of who you are that can never be taken away again.

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Insecure thoughts

Sometimes insecurity can kill everything you have. It’s destructability is even past the worst of all biochemical weapons.
It tears you apart, starting from the soul.

It first starts nudging you gently, planting the seeds of doubt into you mind.
Slowly the poison spreads and takes control over everything.
It corrodes all happiness from you, bit by bit.
Am I good enough?
Am I doing my best?
Why do I always make things go wrong?
Why does everyone not seem to like me?
Perhaps it IS my problem.
Perhaps I am wrong.
Broken.

Broken.
What a terrible thought, that everything is irrevocably irrepairable. That everything is just WRONG.

It kills your happiness.
It kills your sleep.
It kills your peace of mind.
It kills you.

Slowly you will realise that what you really need to do is believe in yourself. But as usual, that’s really much harder than it seems.

 

Insomnia.

It gnaws my innards at night, the raging anger and melancholy I feel for my actions. Who am I to make someone unhappy? Who am I to judge someone and make verdicts on their character or their personality?
Why do I always feel so unhappy, so insecure?
I should always remember to be humble, for I know I am worth nothing more than I am.
I should be satisfied.
I should be happy.
I should be grateful for how materialistically affluent I am and how I don’t have to fight for my life every hour every day.
I should be.

Hold on to that life buoy.

Perhaps no one would give damn to the life buoy that hangs around the pier or the seaside being tanned by the sun everday.
Perhaps no one would be grateful for the lives they have or will save.
Perhaps no one will ever think of it as something of importance and would gladly choose diamonds or money before it.
Perhaps the life buoy will be as useless as it seems, serving it’s duty daily and stay at it’s post unused.

But when the tide comes and the safety that has surrounds you has been wiped off the surface of Earth, then you will realise how much more it can mean to you when you are being pulled fown by the roaring waves.

Perhaps it would keep you alive.
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