tremor

you have been in love with him for nearly three years now. in those three years you’ve asked him to meet you three times. and you’ve been greeted with an excuse not to every single time. and you happily listened to his excuses and understood and ignored the nagging of your subconsciousness, of your insecurities. because he made you feel so seen.

when someone you don’t think will ever come back for you, you accept it. accept the loss. make a joke of it, learn to live with the emptiness of them. and when you start to live with that emptiness, when you finally accept that you will feel so sad for the rest of your life - they come back. suddenly, everything is so shiny. so beautiful. so worthy. you feel so worthy. you look pretty for him. you touch yourself for him. do obscene things for him. and you don’t mind. not at all. he is the one. so you whore yourself out. and you think, maybe if you bare yourself for him, be a good little body for him to use, hide away every emotion you feel for him, he won’t leave you this time. he’ll stay. and he’ll want you, even if it’s physical. you’ll have him. even if it kills you. you will have him.

but someone else comes along. someone clearly better. easier to want. easier to not make excuses for. easier to fuck. so what if she won’t let him defile her like you would. she doesn’t need to because she’s not desperate like you. she isn’t fucked in the head. and that is probably what he wants. someone who isn’t too much. so whilst you sob yourself to sleep for another countless night in a row and beg to God to make you worthy, praying he would reply to your message, he is occupied. his bare skin against hers, placing her in his bed, lips tracing down her neck, hands holding her thighs apart, mouth praising her, drinking in her sighs and moans and cries.

it’s enough to make him forget all about you for days on end. you fall apart, you cannot eat, cannot get out of bed and he falls apart inside her. night after night after night. in her arms. you think, a few months was enough for her to get the your entire heart, but he doesn’t think you’re worthy of even a drink. she is though, of course.

your first thought isn’t anger or sadness or heartbreak. it is panic. you wonder ways to keep him, he tells you it’s complicated. gives you an excuse. you want to know how long, how far, how often, if she let him do the vile things you always spoke about doing. but all you can ask is why not me. he doesn’t answer. that in itself is an answer. he doesn’t have an excuse and neither do you. it must be proximity, you think. but you would’ve been there for him. whenever he wanted. however he wanted. you would’ve burnt your life to the ground for a single night with him.

but someone shinier on the playground is always more appealing. undying love isn’t. it’s a burden. especially from you. you had villainised every past lover in his life, yet, you had forgotten the most obvious thing. not that you could’ve done anything about it.

so you tore yourself apart, couldn’t eat, couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t look at yourself in the mirror, because fuck, why can’t you have been just a little bit prettier? why couldn’t your hair have been a different colour? why couldn’t your eyes have been brighter? why couldn’t your skin have been lighter? why couldn’t you have been a little less? a little less loving. caring. unworthy.

you can barely look at yourself in the mirror whilst you brush your teeth. you pick yourself apart every waking moment and nothing distracts you. and the only thought that persists is how you want to cut yourself open. but you can’t say that out loud. but you think it constantly. it would provide you with some respite, seeing the crimson red slip out, teasingly, begging for another cut to be made deeper. it’s tempting, sexy almost, the way it teases you. for a few minutes you would forget how unlovable and unwanted you are and the scars? the scars would remind you that you’re never worthy enough for him. they’d stop you from being so foolish next time.

but you still text him, on christmas. on new years. your heart jumps when he says your name on the text. but it doesn’t mean anything. not to him. for him, it’s a pleasant text. for you, it’s the reason you haven’t had to fake a smile in over a month. but he doesn’t know that. i don’t think he would even care.

i think the worst thing about all this is that he doesn’t know. doesn’t know how much you love him. can’t even comprehend it. he won’t know that you didn’t touch yourself for months after he left because you made something so intimate so intertwined with him. he won’t know that the first time you tried to touch yourself after he left you sobbed so hard you couldn’t breathe. it still makes you so unbearably sad so you don’t even do it anymore. he haunts every part of your being. every single thing you do.

yet, you don’t even cross his thoughts.