Feed the Muse: Inner Monologues (Vol. I) [√]

[ a wounded creature at 3 AM ]

The hurt has escaped the confines of my chest, and it is manifesting in ways that make my body tremble with the need to scream in frustration; at the universe for the untimely, horrible moments of bad timing, and at myself for always being one step away from happiness.

If only time slowed down, if only the earth rotated a little bit late, then I would have been in the right place, and at the right time, with the right person, but the entire existence of the cosmos pulled me out of my feet and into the arms of another failed attempt in chasing destiny. Fate, why must you be so cruel to me?

And at night, I could not help but tear and claw down the walls of nostalgia and bitterness, and my eyes get wet with the heavy pressure of my broken heart. At 2:30 am, I become a dreadful ball of self-pity and lonesomeness, nursing a cup of coffee at the kitchen table, drowning in memories upon memories, my throat clogging with the words I could have told you. This overbearing sadness, I could taste it thick on my tongue.

I am tired, exhausted from running and running and never really going anywhere with my thoughts. At 5 am, I drift off to a restless slumber, only to be woken up an hour later with the sheets tangled up around my legs and anxiety knocking on my bedroom door. I am sorry, but I do not feel like a person today, please come back when I start feeling like myself again.

Ah, smiling takes the brunt of the hurt, but it does not eradicate the pieces of myself I lost whenever I fake one. Tired eyes, sad eyes, at 3 pm, I feel like everything is going to be alright, but the thunderclouds come, and the rain pours down under my umbrella of facade and trying to keep it together. I never learn when to expect and when not to assume. I never learn at all. Why do I keep breaking my heart over the same things?

I wish I could drink all this longing away, but the strong smell of alcohol takes me back in time and fills my head with all the decisions I could have taken, all my what ifs, all my pointless hesitations, and the more I drink, the more I remember, and the more I remember, the more I want to vomit all my mistakes until there is nothing left within me but a thousand regrets and a million suppressed feelings. I want to turn numb, but my heart, my stubborn, stubborn, vulnerable, stupid heart, does not aspire to be the coldest place in the universe.

My chest blooms with love, a love with no outlet, a love that has been unrequited for a period of 6 years, a love that does not learn, a love that forgives, a love that seeks, a love that hurts, a love that keeps me warm when my body shakes with a nausea of whys and could haves, a love that is selfless enough to let go of people I wanted to save for my own. Ah love, why could I not choose me first?