As much as I try to pretend it doesn’t, it actually does. Hurt, I mean. I do this to myself, when I’m honest with myself. That I sink into this comfortable place thinking that my loyalty means a goddamn thing to anyone. That maybe I am important to one person or the other. It’s takes these little reminders to remember: how wrong I am. How naive. How utterly pathetic.
Be independent, they say. Love yourself first, they preach. Selfish mother fuckers. Oh, I’m selfish; don’t get me wrong. I want unconditional love (who doesn’t). I want to matter. I want to be remembered. I want someone to lie awake, like I do, staring at that dark ceiling and ache to be laying next to me, of all people. Or is it just me? Am I the only one who wants something better? To be loved. To be wanted. To laugh and cry, but not alone.
Or how about this one: to be accepted like I am without stipulations or the lens of some other person as an overlay. Damnit, I’m me. I’m not her or anyone else. I. Am. Me. I’m tired of crying. Harden that heart back up, girl. But I can’t because: been there, done that. I know the actual results of that.
I say: oh, I don’t care if you don’t read what I write. Because then I trick myself into not caring. But I do. Yeah, I actually do. But I do this to myself, don’t I? At least that’s what you’re always telling me.
tara caribou | ©2021 stream of consciousness
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