ruestolenbyinsanity

this message may be offensive 
Do I miss her or do I miss what we had?
          	
          	You didn’t appreciate it. I can’t expect you to, I understand that now.
          	
          	I was someone else—you silently fed into it, only to tell me you hated it?
          	
          	That means you don’t love me. You never loved every different version of me. You just worsened me until my sense of identity was shattered and now I can’t go one day without being someone else.
          	
          	Just someone new, every single day.
          	
          	And yet I still miss IT. Not HER. IT. Because it felt like I had one person who understood. You peered into my fucking soul and flinched, then froze. Then when you realized that you could be normal without me you ran.
          	
          	I thought it’d be you and I and “everyone else” forever. But I’m stuck being incapable of reconnecting to myself—hoping I die to go back because you made me believe you were the only person who could deal with something like that, that you enjoyed if. But you didn’t.
          	
          	Did I even love you?
          	
          	But you couldn’t love me if there never was me.
          	
          	I know my friends do, though. But it’s not their responsibility to pick up the pieces of someone who’s basically a ghost. Why build a puzzle when there are pieces that will always be missing?
          	
          	The worst part is, I’m not even sorry. I don’t want to be fixed. I don’t care if people think I’ve become sociopathic. If I’m severely mentally unwell. I don’t even want to hurt you. I just want to forget you, and everything I thought we had.
          	
          	And eventually, I will. But that’s because I won’t be here. Like always.

ruestolenbyinsanity

this message may be offensive 
Do I miss her or do I miss what we had?
          
          You didn’t appreciate it. I can’t expect you to, I understand that now.
          
          I was someone else—you silently fed into it, only to tell me you hated it?
          
          That means you don’t love me. You never loved every different version of me. You just worsened me until my sense of identity was shattered and now I can’t go one day without being someone else.
          
          Just someone new, every single day.
          
          And yet I still miss IT. Not HER. IT. Because it felt like I had one person who understood. You peered into my fucking soul and flinched, then froze. Then when you realized that you could be normal without me you ran.
          
          I thought it’d be you and I and “everyone else” forever. But I’m stuck being incapable of reconnecting to myself—hoping I die to go back because you made me believe you were the only person who could deal with something like that, that you enjoyed if. But you didn’t.
          
          Did I even love you?
          
          But you couldn’t love me if there never was me.
          
          I know my friends do, though. But it’s not their responsibility to pick up the pieces of someone who’s basically a ghost. Why build a puzzle when there are pieces that will always be missing?
          
          The worst part is, I’m not even sorry. I don’t want to be fixed. I don’t care if people think I’ve become sociopathic. If I’m severely mentally unwell. I don’t even want to hurt you. I just want to forget you, and everything I thought we had.
          
          And eventually, I will. But that’s because I won’t be here. Like always.