it's gotten to a point where i'm consider swearing off love for good, if it means never getting hurt like this ever again.
it's a wise trade-off, i think. i will miss out on a wonderful thing, of course, arguably the purest thing this world has to offer. but after seeking it and discovering the damage it entails—the fear that accompanies it and the treachery you make space for, the blind trust fall of choosing to be vulnerable—it doesn't seem so pure anymore.
you see, i have never regretted giving love and i never will, that is set in stone. but it is the aftermath that brings me worry, that hurts me. the act of accepting love, letting myself be loved, is something i will probably never heal from enough to risk ever again. i don't ask for much— was never one to do so—and yet i never seem to find what i look for in love: ease, trust, comfort, peace. there are always games. there are always games and my heart is too tired, too out of breath. and not in the way that keeps you exhilarated, no; this is the way that makes you collapse on the curb and plead the heavens for mercy, mercy on your aching soul and your poor stupid heart.
this isn't your fault, you know? i'm not angry at you. you know i could never be. this isn't my fault either, so i want to know why i'm angry at myself. god knows i have no say in loving you, no choice and seemingly no way out. why would i choose to wake up every day just to water a plant in a a broken jar? and why is the stupid plant not dying anyway?
i realised that i do not have it in me to kill the plant. but i can conjure a drought, let there be no water. that sounds feasible. hard, so hard, but feasible.
it hurts that it's come to this, but please understand. i cannot find it in me to risk losing my heart again.
