27 март, 2018

show you how

I miss writing. I miss my self-destructive self and the never happened stories it always has. Or the almost happened. I'm not used to things working out or even remotely seeming like they might. I am not used to being part of actual plans and seeing someone every day without even wondering if I will. I'm like... I was okay to deserve my place in hell, you know. I was heading to the next self-destructive shitty thing and was actually enjoying the idea of it when this happened. 
See, you scare me to death. I almost wish I stayed home that night so I never knew you existed. So I never knew what it was like to have you, to hold you, to kiss you, to talk to you till morning comes and we should go to work. It's been ages since I've introduced someone to my friends and was dying to tell my sister just so she knows and so it feels real. Because it still doesn't. 
There is even a part of me that expects it to just end or realize it never was in the first place and I'm still there on the 14th floor where sanity doesn't matter and my moral compass is as broken as what is left of my soul. 
And then... this. Out of the blue. What is even scarier is that ... I'm so out of practice that I might mess things up just by breathing. I've become a version of myself that doesn't care, doesn't apologize for being sarcastic, blunt, openly flirty and having a dirty mind working all the time. I can't even remember what being in a relationship feels like, let alone how to behave and what to say. More importantly - what not to say.
The scary part comes after realizing, that what I've had so far were possibilities of something, but never the thing itself. Just random people wanting to see if I'd be stupid enough to fall for them and then leaving because that's what's better for me. As if they know me enough to know that. And I knew they were temporary and never actually happening, so it was sort of easy to get sick of them, let it all out and get over it. But this... It feels real and I want it to be real. And the scary thing about wanting something and having it, is losing it. I am not the sane "meet my parents" kind of girl. I'm the reckless "drive you crazy" type that you don't exactly tell your friends about or if you do, there are no names involved and you know ... temporary things don't matter at all. Which I'm usually fine with. 
I want to matter this time. I want to ... tell you all the scary stories ... and I want you to stay even after that. And yet every time I say something scary I feel like saying sorry and coming up with a fake life for myself. One that is okay to tell people about.
I wish you could have met the me from 3 years ago or even before that. Like, before all the shit happened and before I decided to destroy the side of me that fell for anything romantic. But I wonder if then you would have been interested. Or else, would it have been her instead of me if I hadn't showed up that night. I mean, one word and I would have been on the 14th floor instead of becoming part of your life. I never would have known you existed. True, I would have been closer to hell but hell is something I know and even love in many ways. You expect the worst and you get it. 
Being close to heaven on the other hand ... Reminds me of things long forgotten and brings back all the girly hopes and dreams I used to have. If I let it all out ... well, good luck finding me if this ever ends. I'm sort of preparing for that every time I look at you. I wonder what it will be like if I get so used to it and then it goes away. And I can't possibly imagine that. So I'm going to have some wine, smoke again even though I'm trying to quit and pretend that I'm still dead inside.
Nothing is that good. Nothing that good lasts forever. Not for me anyway. 

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