I show just a bit more heart.

We ended the moment you decided to run away. Physically you are – the occasional booty call. Emotionally you’ve gone since the day you left. You lied and you cheated and you left me and my feelings on the backburner.

 

 

(He sees me, in that cheesy Avatar way of seeing people. He understands me and he knows what makes me tick. He caresses the small of my back. He nibbles the edges of my shoulders. He licks the back of my ears. He smells my hair and tells me when I change shampoo. He plays with my hair. He kisses me everywhere. He makes me smile in a dorky bashful way that is completely unlike me. He makes me fly.)

 

 

I wanted to be the one. The one that bucked the trend, the one that was more than an illusion, the one that was more than a booty call – the one you chose in the end. Everyday you find new and inexplicable ways to break my heart. I cup my shattered heart in my hands and go right back for seconds, thirds and mores. One day I will grow tired of your actions so I will stop going back for pain. I never gave up on you, even at your most difficult. I wanted to mend your pain and fix your hurt, so you could love fully once again, so you could love me the way I love you.

 

 

(He made me take that leapt of faith – to lose control above all else and feel love for all its emotion and passion. He lives on the edge of the world, straddling the light and the dark. He shows me new things everyday, shares new experiences everyday. He’s teaching me to grow new perspectives and showing me new insights. My curiosity consumes.)

 

 

I remember the story of you running down the corridor, throwing slippers over the parapet and it makes me laugh. I stifle a giggle. It makes the tears easier to bear. My heart’s beating out of my chest, I’m terrified.

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Validate me.

I feed so much on the need for validation, external validation, I don’t trust myself. I don’t trust my instincts and I don’t know how to be alone. I’m dying inside. I want to toss my limp lifeless soul and chuck my body off a building, if it didn’t require disfigurement. I want to die. Beautiful. Not possible. If our memories could be lik e a VCR recorder, overwritten with newer, happier content. I’d rewrite my memories. I’d rewrite my parents’ memories – write myself out of their lives. I’d rewrite everyone’s memories to omit me, then I can die. Unidentifiable, unknown. No pain to anyone. If.

 

Validate me please.

The exception to the rule.

What everyone secretly hopes for: to be the exception to the rule, because mediocrity is plain boring.

Simon Cowell confirms engagement on US TV

Up in the air

“a break from our normal lives… A (parenthesis).”

The word wraps itself around my head like cellophane. I’m tangled, mangled. I can see out, but I cannot get out. Suddenly, the frame comes into focus, there’s clarity in the picture. I’m there, but not. I see, I hear, I smell, but I can’t touch. So near yet so far.

–

On a separate note, the world’s a small place. I drove into the car park, settled myself into the nearest available lot, walked away, turned to double check if I had locked the car door, and I realised I’m parked next to you.

The shocking revelations

The truth makes everything sound like lies. The truth makes the reality lies. The truth hurts, but the truth could not possibly hurt more than the lies. So why is it? Why is it, that I find myself digging deeper into the hole of lies?

 

 

The hope that you’re the exception to the rule.