from the perfect start to the finish line.
You know.
You just know, when shit hits the fan, that's the digital space where you can find me hiding, weeping, breathing erratically.
You know.
When I feel like I'm drowning, suffocating in my feelings that pour out of my shallow cup of a body, that's the place where you can find me, retching alphabetically my soul out, etching the pain on the dusty servers of this website, that only digital gods know the placement. And it's for the good, because
You know.
you
always
knew.
I'm so not good at lying to myself because we've been there so often, you close your eyes and pretend it will be different this time. It's so so so different. And yet, it's so so so so fucking identical. It's so similar, but you're oblivious to this fact because feeling loved romantically is a much-neglected need of yours, that you grasp
any touch,
any smile,
any senseless kiss.
Like a starving, wounded animal, ready to be taken home, begging to be saved. Except that it's so far from home, but so close to be a fighting ring, that will make you bleed, crawl and feel so fucking miserable and emotionally devastated. But will it still be better than being left bleeding and starving alone? Right? Right?
When life feels like a granted win, your breaths don't sound earned, that's when your soul understands the wounds better than the body. That's when it hurts. It truly fucking does.
The thing is, you're doing it to yourself purposely. The main reason is, that besides the pure sadism, the bleeding and crying make you feel alive because nothing else does. I feel so fucking hollow, I can feel my soul between the epidermis, vibrating, wanting to be out. I wanted his hands on my heart, but I guess between my legs is also fine, pussy is also an organ. What's the point of these semantics?
You just simply want to be fucking loved.
What a concept, huh?
Without explaining how you want to be loved, explaining feels like a chore. And you're so fucking tired of chores. You're so damn tired. And you feel like sleeping with a man that doesn't want serious, because they all truly never want anything serious, will help. It will make the itching wound bleed less, even though you're the one who's constantly picking the skin, peeling the scabs, sucking on the pouring blood. You're the one who applies a band-aid on a deeply fractured bone, beyond repair.
Then the fuck is it for?
I guess for hollow adults we've become. We spread our legs for a semblance of a connection because a purely romantic feeling feels like a scam. Because nothing seems genuine, so you make it up. You feed your mind delusions until it cannot see clearly, and the next thing you know... you're crying here. Wishing that you'd never left the mother's womb.
Never to come out.
Never to be here to feel the hurt.
And then you drive back home, listening to this beautifully curated playlist called Songs to Cry to, and White Flag by Dido starts playing while you turn your gaze to the left and
Видишь пару державшуюся за руки которые путаются в их пальто как в паутине, потому что ветренно и скоро будет дождь. Её волосы танцуют под ветер и капли набирающие темп. И они идут, все ещё держатся за друг друга с улыбкой на лице, которая возможно бы вылечила меня в солнечный день, если бы не заставила реветь в руль моей тачки по дороге домой.
Всё ещё совпадение? Саботаж вселенной?
and when we meet
which I'm sure we will
all that was there
will be there still
I'll let it pass
and hold my tongue
and you will think
that I've moved on
Will I ever get over men who used me as an object of self-release when I was bleeding open for them? When I'm too much but not enough. When it's always a fucking middle. When I am just a comma in an incomplete sentence of their lives while I made them a whole chapter of my life.
What a fucking tragedy of a woman I am. What a fucking pathetic woman that just wants to be loved, for once in her life. That wants to be wanted to be a part of someone's life chapters, not paragraphs, not commas, not unfinished sentences.
Sharing the same chapters equally, making a book.
What a concept, huh?
Я надеюсь они будут идти вместе ещё долго, чуть дольше чем длится трэк Дайдо, Белый Флаг.
and if you live by the rules of "it's over"
then I'm sure that that makes sense
?
