Memory 2, “I thought you were a good person”
These exact words make me go numb.
It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts. It hurts.
It hurts like that sinking feeling you get when your parents scold you but you were in the right. It hurts like how a knife in your stomach would twist and knot it all up, tie it into a pretty bow. It hurts like when you curl up in your bed and you start feeling that sinking feeling of sudden guilt and regret.
It hurts.
It hurts like a bitchy dog in heat.
The reason why it does is because I love these people till the point I understand, I try to piece the incomplete puzzle that I was given with only half the picture. I try to follow their humor, with their laughs and their sobs. I try so hard to understand.
I am burdened with the fact they do not care as much as I do. I am the free songbird hunting for worms while they are the caged racing pigeons fed oats and nuts. They do not see me the way I see them, I look at them with love and longing.
That’s my tragedy.
They do not care as deeply as I do. Their love for me does not run as deep as the cuts and valleys in the ocean or as deep as the scars on my body.
It does not run deep enough for them to bleed red and blue, it doesn’t at all.
I am the one that cares too much. It’s almost embarrassing.
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”I thought you were a good person”
Shut up. Let the choirs sing from the angels above and I’ll watch as hell below me rises from the pit and grabs my ankles and scratches at my scars.
I can already feel the burn in me. The way that the hot flames would wipe my skin away. The way the fire would kiss my cheeks as the pain engulfs me, drowning me in its blue flames.
”I thought you were a good person, {...}”
I shouldn’t even be considered a person, my love. My vala, my mahal, my buwan.
I am not even real. I’m just a monster with a heart and a taste for dramatizing. I am not deserving of such a title, yet alone a name said with such love.
”I thought you were a good person, {...}. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?”
I am ashamed. Please go quiet. I simply cannot understand or comprehend basic human etiquette, let alone understand it.
I can’t even begin to fathom its requirements. Your words pierce me like I was pushed in by the current on a rocky cave, my skin catching and destroying the rocks and the corals on the ocean floor. Is this how you tell me that you love me?
Tell me how you care for me? I’ll accept it with open arms.
For I think love is born from pain, and to be loved is to be changed.
To be hurt is to understand.