Everytime I open my notepad I feel embarrassed for myself.
Because it’s really me who’s the laughing stock in distress.
I need to stop confusing the obvious differences between wanting and needing something.
Why do I always need the things that are not good for me, why am I always choosing the things that will destroy me?
I am in a constant battle, with choosing what feels good even if it hurts.
Because I can look at you and tell you that hurt is full of truth.
And I keep writing about you, as if I’m writing to you. I keep writing about you, with the slight chance you might read it and come back to me.
But it’s not even what I want. What I want is inevitable.
I spent years, getting you to where you needed to be. I feel like I’m going to fucking throw up, thinking about the months I held your pain in my palms, and guided you back to sanity.
I feel like I’m going to fucking throw up, thinking about the struggle, the fight, the good days and bad, where you felt whole, and I felt like I was doing my job.
I got you to where you needed to be.
And when I did, I was left for roadkill.
I feel territorial, and jealous (you’d like that) that I dealt with the hard part. And even the good days with you, will not make up for the days that she gets to keep.
I feel like I could scream, thinking about the things she gets to see first, when I was the one who carried you on my back, and nursed you into a man.
It’s now that I can only imagine the joy on your face, when you start to notice the things that I cannot be there for. I feel like I could scream, thinking about her taking responsibility for the puzzle that I spent years putting together.
But if there’s one thing I know, even if I do have trouble identifying what I want and what I need, if hurt is full of truth, everytime you bleed, it’ll by my blood on your hands.