the letter i wanted to send you, but never sent - and never wrote
"maybe it’s not that you’re bad at showing love, maybe it’s that i’m not important enough to you to be shown love. above all else, i hate your empty words, the empty apologies - like honey dripping down plump honeycombs, filling my eardrums until they’re clogged and all reason flies out the window - these empty words are amber resin, and i, the ever foolish fly, am ensnared without fail. i fall for it every time. it’s an eternal return to ruin. silent, guttural gusts of air from my lungs weigh so heavy, my head can hardly lift itself from the grey pillowcase. the weight of loneliness is a heavy weight indeed. no rest for weary feet, no peace for an unstable person, so i weep. i weep for your vain attempts to conceal a reluctance to be with me, but not for you. i weep because i am dragged along all the more. hell isn’t fire and brimstone and rancid sulfur, it’s not the loneliness. it’s knowing that you don’t have to be alone, but you are anyway. hell is being alone by someone else’s choice, and not yours. it’s an abusive ritual that i partake in, but can’t escape. maybe i choose not to escape. maybe the racking pains are my metaphysical paroxysms. hell looks like you and at the same time your absence. i wish i was good enough for you. i’m forever halted at open gates, at an imaginary threshold i can’t seem to discern, rules to a cruel game i will never know how to play. the threshold in lines are the nails to my coffin that you drag behind you in chains. i wish i’d never met you. i wish i never let myself imagine or hope. reading your name or glancing at a picture of you bruises my soul. there is no without you- you always have a place in my mind, but there is only without me. all of it meant nothing to you. i’d thought you’d catch me when i fell, but you fucking dropped me. i hope you’re happy, but i hope i never see you again. i hope you’re happy, but i hope one day someone will hurt you like you hurt me. i hope you’re happy. i really do."
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