Sus my face
Sus my b/w blog
I fucking loved you. More than anything or anyone. Why would you tell me you love me, that you’d give me the world, then turn around and say things will never work? If you love somebody, you’d you anything for them. You’d fucking fight for them until the end. Kind of like the way i’ll never stop fighting for you. You fucking cuntfuckshitasshole.
I’m not alive or dead, I’m straddling the fine life between life and death, not fully one or the other and only half existing because it’s just as impossible to live with you than it is to live without you.
It really isn’t a pleasant feeling like most say. In actual fact, it’s the complete opposite. It’s like a seed that plants itself within the centre of your being and refuses to remove itself. It starts small but continues to grow and flourish and wrap it’s numerous roots and complications around your heart and occupy your veins until you no longer remember what it was like before it wasn’t part of you. You no longer have eyes, ears or a mouth of your own. It sees for you, it speaks for you and it hears for you. It poisons your thoughts, twists your perception and clouds your judgment. Everything is black and white, right or wrong, good or bad, happy or miserable. It leaves you vulnerable and transparent. You can no longer hide what’s inside of you, it exposes all. It brings out the very best in you, but also brings out things in you, which you had always desperately hoped would never surface- jealousy, paranoia, spite, anger. It can lift you up higher than you have ever been, but it can bury you down so far you feel as though you will never see light or breathe again, nor do you really want to. Nothing feels better than when things are going great, but no pain is worse than when things are terrible. More often than not, however, the growth of the plant will falter. Somebody may poison it or pick its fruit. It could be something somebody says, or a decision they make, but it will always partially kill the plant. When part of the plant dies, it takes you down with it. What once filled your chest now leaves an undeniable, discomforting and haunting emptiness. No matter how dead it may seem, how dead, empty and worthless you may feel, the roots still live within your veins and heart, feeding off every last emotion left within you, thriving off your traumatised soul. The rejection may kill you, but you will always live with the tiniest hint of hope. Deep down the plant will always be there, between life and death , just waiting for an opportunity to flourish once more. And no matter how hard you try to forget, you will always be desperately hoping and wishing to feel the way you once felt, and to have that somebody feel the same way. Passionate, unconditional and tender. In the end though, it is always better to seclude yourself. Avoid intimacy at all costs. This way, that nasty little seed can’t make its way into the confines of your heart, and you can never get hurt. After all solitude is bliss. Who the fuck needs love anyway?
Every tangible speck of life that I have immersed myself in has been dried up and left suspended in the air, weighing with unpredictable possibility. I wonder how heavy the air can get before all my troubles will come raining down on me.
How is it that you can find it so difficult to live without somebody when living with them never works? How is it that you can be so completely devoted to somebody who is so obviously not right for you? How is it that you can feel so strongly for somebody who will never be what you need them to be? Fuck love.
