Posted in Personal Blogging

It’s over.

This is it. It is finally done.

That doesn’t mean that I can fully breathe without feeling like I’m doing something wrong. It doesn’t mean your name on my phone makes me less anxious than it did before. It doesn’t mean the pain we caused each other will leave my pores anytime soon. But it does mean that I am more ready to let go of most of it.

It means I’m not sad anymore. I’m not mad (though I don’t think I ever was), I just am.

Remember those conversations in the middle of the night? When I described the panic that would sometimes seize my bones, and you talked about that incredible chasm of nothingness that sometimes threatened to swallow you whole?

I don’t think I ever fully understood it. Not until now.

That is how I feel now: Nothing. A chasm that swallows up everything I feel the moment it pops up. I can’t be sad or angry or happy because of you because the chasm has developed a taste for everything carrying your name. It is insatiable when it comes to you. It eats and eats, and asks for more every time. So I feed it whenever I can when I catch your name or a memory that used to make me smile.

I am numb and empty of any feeling now. I am tired. But I am over it.

My breath might still catch, waiting for all of the shoes to drop, but my mind is quiet now. I no longer envision every way in which my carelessness can result hurtful.

I have a tendency to make things worse, to ruin them. Right?

I know, I know, I know. That’s why I hide, and lie, and pretend to be someone else I’m not.

But even mannequins get tired of being expressionless so people won’t feel bad about them. And I am so past the point of holding my breath just so other people can breathe.

I am sorry, I know you’re in pain. But you are an all-consuming force that demands all the attention and breath in a room, and right now my lungs are too bruised to handle this the way you need to.

So I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

I know I’m terrible. I know I should stop. I know you deserve better. I know I’m the worst. But this sagging mass of costumes I’ve been wearing need more than duct tape and good will to hold up, now, so I have to step out of it and allow someone to help me mend it.

And if I hurt you when I was someone made to your liking, trust me, you will not be able to handle me out of it. I am not someone to be liked, but you already realized that, didn’t you?




23-year-old writer from Chile. Currently reading, writing, and trying not to lose my mind.

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