myself missing me
If I took anything from New York, it was that kind of epiphany I had while sleepless in bed one night. I hadn't thought of you much at all, which was satisfying, unexpected. I thought I'd be pining for you in my moments of aloneness and reflection, if I came across something achingly romantic and would automatically conjure the thought of you, loving me, or wanting me, or somehow just being a completely different person. I was lying there, and it just hit me. Just how much it wasn't enough. How embarrassing it was to be so acutely aware that the sum of your actions towards me only meant one thing, which was that you didn't care enough. And how could I have held on, and kept waiting and wishing and hoping, for something that was never going to happen? You never would've made it happen for me. Whatever you gave me, whatever encouragement or impetus or kindness you extended me, that I took to mean too much, that I took to heart, ultimately didn't mean anything. The bridge between what I wanted from you, the pedestal that I put you on, my willingness to overlook all truths - and the way that you treated me, viewed me, how you never made up your mind and didn't know or care what it did to me each time, how I came to just accept your fluctuations, the brutality of which I continued to absorb, the lies I told myself, how I was okay with it, how that was just you, how you were an eternal mystery and it was my fault for trying. The mere fact I was filling my head with these games while I'm sure you were sleeping soundly at night, not even remembering my name, the last words we said, or when I was coming back.