You're just another name on the list of people that I fell in love with, but it all turned sour, and never went anywhere in the end. It went just as I predicted it would, though deep down, I wanted it to be different. Just for once.
We weren't meant to be different; we were meant to be like all my other loves. My heart predicted it, because it knows all too well the kind of shit I put myself through day in and day out. I'm sorry I sound so bitter, I let it all marinade inside me for so long that I can't seem to shake the bitterness. It's awfully pungent these days, especially when it comes to you.
Believe me, I want to be over all of it. I once sung songs to you in my dreams, ones that said that we would meet again some sunny day. I know now that my dreams are only dreams, that it's not likely that I'll see you again. It's almost wintertime now, and the sky is dark early. In the springtime, thinking of now hurt. I think I'm okay with losing you now, I think I'm okay.
Over it, or still trying to feel something for you? I don't know. You're gone physically, but not metaphorically. The ideals you planted in my brain remain. You yourself do remain, though I pretend you're gone entirely sometimes. I miss you, yet I miss me more. I miss who I was with you. We'll never meet again.
Your name is still on my list, and it's got a heart next to it. That makes me sick, makes me wonder why I ever decided that loving you was a good idea. I don't know what was going through my mind then. Maybe it was the adrenaline rush I felt when I looked at you that made that decision for me.
I don't dream of you quite like I used to - I think that's a good sign. You are very beautiful, but darling: you ended up just the same as the other names on my list. You couldn't love me enough to break the mold, to get your name off the list. I guess it's a list for a reason.
When I see your name now, it doesn't hurt like it used to. I have to remind myself that it's only a name; detaching you from the very word you're called by. We'll never meet again.
YOU ARE READING
Self Deception
PoetryPoetry 2017 And if I burn out in a fit of psychosis, remember me as a young god, with that smile made of daggers, even if I was the most dangerous thing you could've touched. Perhaps all that danger comes from the multiple personalities, but all I...
