journal · letter · prose


The truth is that all the writing and words in the world won’t make one bit of difference. I can pray and cry and wish and bleed and sigh and get high to distract myself from the pain, but none of these things will make you care any more than you do. They won’t make you fall in love with me. You can keep fooling yourself into believing that this is something more than what it is – be it because of your guilt, your appreciation for my actions, or the genuine affection that resulted from it – but, whatever it is, it is not the maddening thrill of being in love. It is obvious in your every action and reaction, each kind gesture, thought, and word and/or lack thereof… all of it screams that you don’t feel it, even if you are wishing on every clock strike and star that you did, you would. There will always be a void: the absence of mutuality. This disappointment coursing through my veins, breathing life into this sharply pointed pit of unhappiness that I keep getting higher and higher to forget. And, ultimately, I will not be able to live like this. I already can’t. But I’m not ready to live without you, yet. And I don’t know if I ever will be. You’re the worst habit I’ve ever had.


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