I read spaces in conversation the way some read tea leaves, finding answers to questions that I hadn’t even thought to ask
Drunk on a Monday. If this is low, I’ve still been lower.
Then again, I’ve been lower than most people walk away from, so maybe that’s nothing to brag about. It does mean that I survived, but I’m beginning to think that there is more to life than barely surviving. That maybe some people can think past their next crash. I’m just trying to delay it as long as possible, hoping that I end up dying of something else.
What, then, do these scars mean?
I want to believe that he’s still interested. That’s the shitty part of it all. He got what he came here for (they always do), and I want to believe that it meant something. That he’s planning on sticking around, that he is interested in who I am. Because I want to trust someone and he’s convenient.
But if he can’t even want the best of me, what’s he going to do when he sees the worst? What then will he do?
But I already know the answer to that. He’s going to run, pushed away just like you taught me. Love is weakness, and as much as I want to, I can’t let myself be weak. Be vulnerable.
Because the vulnerable ones get hurt.
This? This is controlling my own destiny. Maybe the only way I know to steer is into the storm, but at least I’m steering. It’s not much, but it’s not nothing. I should do better, but at least I’m doing something.
For now, it’s enough.
If you saw me now, would you even recognize the girl you used to love? I’m still here somewhere, buried by the heartbreak you taught me to inflict
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