it's confusing, the way you make me feel. i was always inadequate to your perfection — not smart enough, not funny enough, not cheerful or cute or pretty enough. not small enough or fit enough. the more i liked you, the more i hated myself, every little bit of me.
and yet the more i got to know you, the more i recognized pieces of myself in you. things that i did that i'd always hated — you did them too. your stupid jokes that fell flat half the time. your sleep-deprived search for words, some of which came out wrong anyway. your aloofness, the distance you kept from other people, even when you put on a friendly front. turning down an invitation to go out wasn't lame anymore, because you did it too. eating alone wasn't something to be ashamed of, because you did it too.
nothing about you was perfect. not physically, not morally, not spiritually. and that was something that i only saw with distance, but it gave me hope — that if i could fall so head over heels for someone as imperfect as you, then maybe someday, someone might do the same for someone just a little more imperfect like me.
YOU ARE READING
(everything) you left.
Short Storya slow descent into insanity. i'm going to be honest. i don't entirely know what this is. but if you're up for short "chapters," questionable metaphors and yet another round of personifying mental illnesses into the people who triggered them, come o...
