You know what I fear? I fear the day that my life would stop revolving around you. Bowing down to your accusations building my sorrow land on your pitiful words that stab me everyday continuously until I am forced to think yes, I don’t deserve happiness and I’ll never be. I have never known happiness without you. 

Writing about you has become a way of living. You, you are all that exists. Even in denial and delusion, you make sense. 

I force myself to go on unbothered. What other choice do I have? Seeing pictures of myself making rounds; does that mean this is the end? I don’t understand, especially when most of them were  posted online by me, about a year ago, and the rest were sent to the man I loved. Those pictures were no big deal, and when I am as open as I’ve been I don’t savvy why I am being targeted. And these are piling up in sequel to the rumors in motion. Waves of betrayal and treachery weighing me down now, I don’t know how to feel. I mean would hating him make things easier? Maybe. I wouldn’t know though, I have never been able to hate him. I don’t hate him and I hate that I don’t hate him.

Where I work, things like these are the end. Making it impossible for me to live among people or look them in the eye. Most of them aren’t as open minded as I, or as expressive. And even though they don’t say anything to my face, I know what they keep saying when I’m not around. I know what they are thinking from the judgmental looks I get from their lust hungry eyes when I walk by. Finally an explanation for why I stare at my feet and try my best to avoid another living soul while I walk. Can no longer walk with my head up high. Too ashamed for that.

People talk, rumors spread faster than anything else. Especially when you’re the mysterious thing who barely says anything and is almost always seen alone staring into space. People are curious about you. So when they hear something about you, that’s all they can talk about.

Recently I was reached out by an old schoolmate, we were pretty close back in school. And she said somethings that surprised me.

“You have no idea how much respect I have for you. Amilla life varah fucked up hisaabakah elhyma ingunee. You were, still are very brave. Stood strong and tall against all that damaged you back then.”

“Mashah maa fahun realize vee aslu eyru Ana ulhun haalu. All those things people talked about you, did to you. You were brave. So brave.”

What is she talking about? I don’t know. I don’t know anymore. When were things not so fucked up. I don’t remember a time people didn’t talk about me. Don’t tell me it’s because of my life choices, because there were times life chose me instead. And these words, they don’t make me happy, I mean why must anyone go through the amount of fucked up to understand another troubled soul? Just why. Can’t we all just be human?.

The last thing she said was “I am sorry we had to go through all that.” Me too honey, me too.

Why do we deserve these things? Even when we think we deserve better we are all struggling under a pile of crap we never owened up to.

Honestly, don’t ask me. Don’t ask me why. Because I don’t have the answer. I don’t know why. I don’t know why I keep rummaging over the past and its materials and the too old texts when they no longer reflect the present. These were all from a time when we didn’t hate each others existence. But today, we do. At least one of us does. So much. But I don’t and I hate that. I am not going to pretend that I no longer love him just because he hates me so much.

Guess like I said, maybe it’s my thing. The thing that makes me happy, reliving the past, reliving the hurt, the pain, the memories. Because nothing has made more sense since then.  A love once so true, now so bitter.

If he ever saw this his reaction would be something along the lines, “Another one of her attention seeking stunts. Or drama queen, who loves drama at it again. Or she’s still weird and disturbed. Or damn falling in love with four guys a week has still got her nowhere. Whore. Prostitute. Gold-digger. Uncle fucker. Whore.”

“Time does not always heal all wounds. Time demands answers and new wounds reopen old ones.”

I got fed up of your not calling, I got fed up of your absence. I got fed up of not knowing what tomorrow held for us. I tried, I did. I know you did too. We’ve both fucked up along the way. How hard is it to admit, that you weren’t the best too? How hard is it to admit that things could’ve been different if we both played our parts. It takes two to build a relationship and wreck one too. It’s not all on me. It’s not. And you know this too.

A year back, exactly today. I betrayed him. Not once, not twice, not thrice. Thrice in a row and then one last time. Months in between the third and the fourth. None of this was because I loved him any less, although that maybe very hard to believe now. Trust me, I loved him. I fucked up.

The first time I was barely aware when it happened, should’ve pulled back but it felt a sluttier kinda nice. The first couple of times were for the thrill, for the adrenaline rush it gave me. Awfully, I barely felt any guilt. It was shameless. The last time though, was when he had stopped coming around. What we had, had become less and less functional. I didn’t see things going anywhere. But the last time, yes I had slightly fallen for someone else as well. He turned out gay though. So yep, learned a bit of a lesson there myself. See sometimes, when a guy doesn’t make any move on you, physically, for months and you think he’s just a great guy who respects you and isn’t with you for his burning desires? Nah, sometimes he’s just gay. Or bi and not bi enough for you.

I don’t understand why I’m still betwixt the past even after everything that has recurred. The blame, the lies, false accusations, rumors. All his doing. Maybe it’s my thing, reliving the same story because that’s the only thing that made sense.

But how crazy does that make me when I tell you that underneath all that I still believe exists the man I loved. Behind all that, behind all that hatred, behind everything so horrible I still believe is the man I once knew, the man I once loved, the man I still love.  I can’t rid myself of this feeling, it’s insane and my friends would give me one good kick to knock me out and my thoughts but this is how I feel. Am I crazy? To love someone who made my life a living hell? But then, his favorite song is ‘Walk With Me In Hell’. Makes sense that way, because I so totally would walk with him in hell. But then a million other girls are probably as willing too.

It’s déjà vu and this is all too familiar, this is how it has always been. I was only praying this time it could be different and when I walk away for it to be the last time that I do. Still and all I always find myself back here, begging to be let in, oblivious to how further away I had been and could have been. I manage to find my way back to chaos only to build a hut amidst of it. Because it’s home. The last where we left things off though, it was destructive. There was nothing more clear telling me it was time, time to move on and leave everything behind.  Time to seal the book and run away, run as far as I could. And never return. Because I didn’t want to see what I had done to him nor him to I.

I couldn’t run away, I couldn’t leave this behind. I’ve never been able to. Feels like I’m right back here at this door begging to be let in. Doesn’t make sense. What am I doing here, what did I leave behind? What more is it that I want? More humiliation?

After everything that has happened. I still feel like he is the one.

Wtf am I doing or thinking, I don’t know.

Pray for solace,
Pray for resolve,
Pray for a savior,
Pray for deliverance, some kind of purpose.
A glimpse of a light in this void of existence.

What am I more terrified off? Loving you or being loved by you? When I know you’d never love me right. Or the fact that I know maybe I already do.

The words that never reached my mouth or the tip of my thumbs.

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Sitting in a corner in this wearily rain, watching the world go by. While the roads have made it impossible to walk on with plashy puddles and propulsive driving. Here I am, with a book I’ve been too frail to finish, although tempting; my mind just has been elsewhere.

A few kilometers and a sea away from home. A part of me wishing this rain to never lull, allowing me to sit here and wonder more.

Friends waiting for me anxiously, while family has no clue. At this point friends are my Ohana. I know I wanted to be home, I had something to look forward to. I still do. But now that I’m here, so close and so far, it doesn’t quite feel the same. And I’m unable to figure what had changed.