Dear you,
I wish I could hate you. I honestly wish I could just hate you and call you an idiot and leave you to your own devices. I wish I could say, I don’t care and that I can say “I told you so” when the inevitable happens. But I can’t. For two reasons. One, I love you. Two, I am you.
You heard it here first. I love you. The awkward, painful, know-it’s-not-right love that will just hit a spike and rip me apart, and infect me with poison and bitterness. Like it already hasn’t. I can’t get you off my mind. Even when I want you gone, when I block you out, you’re there, subconsciously, you’ve taken me over. I’ve listened to that Fine Frenzy song 20 times this week because of you. Because that damn song is my life, is my love for you, except, surprise, you’re not even an Almost Lover to me. You’re completely unattainable. Which is probably why I want you. Because I always want what can’t be mine, and because I can see you from afar and not worry about screwing you up with my crazy life or my toxic attitudes. But it still hurts to know that it’ll never be me.
You say you’re over her, but I still have this horrible image in the back of my head. That you’ll see her again, and remember why you loved her in the first place, and you’ll be right back at square one, and I’ll be at square -10. Because now, it’s just not meant to be because we’re friends, or I’m just not your type, and yes, that hurts like shrapnel in my soul, but God, if it’s her in the way, it’s worse. Because it’s just one more immovable, solid block between me and so-called happiness. But this block is prettier and more artsy than me, and she’s just your type.
It’s gotten to the point where I don’t even know if I really hate her for her, or because she has the potential to have you whenever she wants. I don’t know if I hate her because of what she’s done to you, or what she’s done to me, or because she’s who she is. I hate this, just loathing someone and not knowing why. But you can’t tell me why I feel like this can you? Because you don’t know this is about you. And please god, you never know. Because the only thing worse than loving you like this is you leaving me forever, never talking to me, hell, maybe hating me because of this, which you will. I’m not right for you, but damn, we have so much in common don’t we? Both longing and pining and crying for someone who doesn’t care. In a better world, maybe we’d work. Or maybe I wouldn’t want you so bad. Who knows? But this is the world we have now, and these are the feelings, and this is the confession.
Love,
Invisible Girl
(Literally just wrote this. Unedited, just a shpeel about toxic love)
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