(no subject)
i've come to realise that what hurts the most is not the lack of love, or the other women, or the long months in between seeing him. it's the statistics. the clear fucking cut facts. in september it will have been four years since we met. four years in which i have never spent the night with him, told him i love him to his face, talked to him (you know, really talked). four years of which we spent only two really being together, seeing each other, talking constantly, touching, feeling, thinking, everything.
in the past year and a half i have seen him three times. eighteen months. three times. three times. three. fucking. times. i could probably count the conversational exchanges equally accurately, if i put my mind to it. that is what gives me the punch-in-the-stomach feeling, these days. that is what makes my throat and my eyes burn until i'm sobbing, what makes me wrap my arms around my stomach as if it will stop my innards ripping apart. it hurts because it puts everything to shame. every thought i've ever had, every word i've ever spoken about him, every time i've written his name, said i love him, said i need him, made out to myself and everyone else that this joke of a.. relationship i have with him is something real and not entirely fantastical. because it says more than anything else, more than any harsh word he ever spoke or the most minimal span of time between him coming and then him leaving or the most maximal span of time between our liasions; it screams, clearer than any of that, he does not want you, or need you, or like you. you are nothing to him.
three times. eighteen months.
it hurts because how can he be my everything, when what we have is so clearly nothing?
in the past year and a half i have seen him three times. eighteen months. three times. three times. three. fucking. times. i could probably count the conversational exchanges equally accurately, if i put my mind to it. that is what gives me the punch-in-the-stomach feeling, these days. that is what makes my throat and my eyes burn until i'm sobbing, what makes me wrap my arms around my stomach as if it will stop my innards ripping apart. it hurts because it puts everything to shame. every thought i've ever had, every word i've ever spoken about him, every time i've written his name, said i love him, said i need him, made out to myself and everyone else that this joke of a.. relationship i have with him is something real and not entirely fantastical. because it says more than anything else, more than any harsh word he ever spoke or the most minimal span of time between him coming and then him leaving or the most maximal span of time between our liasions; it screams, clearer than any of that, he does not want you, or need you, or like you. you are nothing to him.
three times. eighteen months.
it hurts because how can he be my everything, when what we have is so clearly nothing?