you are so many things for me. and right now, you are pain.

i can write about the oh-so-many-reasons why i should be hating you, why you and i are hurting, and why this doggone thing shouldn’t have happened in the first place. but it already happened and there’s really no point crying over spilled milk (yes, i puke at my banality).

so here we are. me, all dazed and confused and angry at myself. dazed like someone bashed my head mercilessly until blood leaked out of my cracked skull benumbing every single nerve in my body. confused, well, because all my senses are dead and my brain is gasping for its last few breaths. i’m angry and i’m lashing at everyone that comes near me because i don’t know how to deal with these emotions you’re making me feel. you? i dunno. you say you’re hurting. you say you didn’t intend to mess up my head. you’re throwing my words back at me as if i’m not agonizing enough over the shrapnel of your words, slicing and cutting and killing me inside.

i hate being this way. pining for someone. pining for someone i’m starting to doubt if i should be pining for to begin with. but i am anyway.

you claim i never loved you. i say you’re so goddamn obsessed with the pettiness of romance, with the sweet-nothings disguised as gestures of affection but are essentially devoid of meaning. i tried my best to give in. and i’m not gonna fucking enumerate the things i did for you. the very things i swore to heavens i will never do for anyone but i did them anyway just to tell you how much your happiness is important to me. you are to me. but you decided to ignore them for reasons my puny little mind cannot fathom. was it pure blindness? ignorance? or selfishness? oh, i know, i reckon it’s because i am never enough. that whatever i do, or say, will always fall short of your expectations.

sucky ain’t it? i was almost  sure you are immune to half-truths. you certainly sounded like you meant what you said. but now, i’m not so sure anymore. and that’s what hurts the most. the words that you thought were true. the secret midnight calls. the messages sent at the height of your giddiness that crescendo-ed and climaxed far too early (premature ejaculation much?). your constant protestations of love (that never fails to make me gush, i must say). your half-truths hurting like hell.

you know, this note has two conclusions. i’m letting you take your pick. or maybe combine them?

I. notwithstanding the fucked-upness of everything, i am waiting like i said i would. know what you want and go for it. say that i am wrong. whatever happens next, i know you’ll be happy and that’s good enough for me.

II. heretofore, love, heretofore i am not crashing down. not for you. not for anyone.

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Pucha, matutulog na ko.