Breaking My Own Heart, So You Don’t Have To
It’s ok
I did the big thing
The big thing, of talking to someone who knows you, me and him. I told him everything, how I read into everything,sent him the letter I wanted to send you.
I did it because tonight, I drove by. I fantasised about walking inside, telling you, getting it all off my chest and risking it all. I thought it would go one of two ways, firstly you’d interrupt, kiss me fiercely and take me right there and then in front of the burning stove.
The other option, which I know now is exactly what would have happened, is you would have listened, looked shock and apologised that it was all in my head and nothing more.
I’d cry, like I am now, and you’d apologize even though you’ve never given me an inch, let alone enough for me to want a mile.
I fucking sat outside thinking, give me a sign, give me anything and I’ll leave him tomorrow. I’ll end everything so we’d never have to feel guilty for crossing a line.
But what fucking line was there anyway? Other than the line I conjured up.
Because I have this insatiable desire to fuck everything up. To ruin myself and break my own heart. I’m perfectly capable of it, it’s just been a while since I did. It’s an old pattern but one I haven’t explored in so long that I clearly forgot the markings of. I think someone means more than they do, I think I’m attractive enough to warrant anything more than a hole to fuck, I think I’m desirable and sensational and leave them wanting more.
I’m not though. I’m just an ugly face, a pudgy body and a fucked up head, chasing the love and desire I never feel I have had. I do stupid things, thinking my hints will lead to an answer to an unspoken desire. But it only works if there are two people on the same wavelength. Not one person, desperate for attention and starved of desire, looking for a sign in a sea of nothingness.
So consider this me saying I’m done and I’m sorry.
As the middle man pointed out, you never had and never would find me attractive. And just as my best friend pointed out, you’re charming beyond belief and more attractive than anyone should be, you could convince a shoe they were special just by walking past in another pair with the same laces. And just as a fucking stranger in my life said, stop reading into the love hearts on messages read, as anything more than politeness. Because the fact you even replied, is more than I deserve or should have expected.
Don’t worry. I conjured up a desire,created a fantasy affair and destroyed it all without you knowing a thing. We’ll keep it that way. I’ll try to keep him happy while my heart and hope for desire rot and wither away; and you live happily ever after, blissfully unaware of the greatest love affair that never lived outside of my troubled and broken head.
