I always thought that I would fight for you. Then insecurities and doubts got in the way. They shot me down before I even took flight. I made you think I didn't want you. In fact, I wanted you to think I didn't want you, because I thought you didn't want me. In reality, I should have done the opposite.
I wonder: what would have happened if I had fought for you the way you wanted me to? What would happen if I tried to fight now?
But most of all, I wonder if it's too late, at the same time knowing the truth I wish I didn't know:
It is.
Ridiculously enough, this has become about you again. The real struggle is trying not to give in and write about you. But I find I cannot help myself anymore than a wolf can stop itself from howling, or the sun can stop its burning. Though I try to steer clear of you in words, everything else seems a lie.
I wanted someplace to write things that people could appreciate. I wanted to write about the philosophies that presented themselves to my mind. Yet here I am, and all my writing has become about you again. This is my struggle.
Everything I write has a trace of you within it. You're the ghost who guides forth the words that I spill across the screen, across the pages of my diary, throughout the lines of my poetry. And still you thought that I didn't care. Do you realise how wrong you were?
I'm left to wonder: do you still read this, which I hadn't known you'd found?
Now things are finished and I am yet to move on. Falling is never easy. And it ALWAYS hurts. That's why it's called falling.
I try to think that another door has opened before me, while the one with you behind it has closed, but I'm finding it a little bit difficult to find that open door. I want to find it, I want to let it take me away, away from the hurt, away from the memories, away from the unanswered questions. And most of all, away from the "What if's".
I want to find my independence again; I lost it when I'd grown so used to leaning on you. I suppose I leaned too much. I broke you.
I'm sorry.
You won't accept "sorry". I understand. Most likely, I wouldn't either. But it's there, just so you know. I couldn't say it enough to cover all the things I've done which I wish I could be forgiven for, but I'd like to. I wonder if that means anything to you. Probably not. Why would it?
I was a coward, I was insecure, I made you feel like you weren't the person you should be. I made you feel worthless. And I had no right to. I never wanted to make you feel like that, I didn't know that I had. It's just another thing to add to the long, long list of things I wish you'd told me.
Yet, for all the paper cranes I could fold, not one of them, not all of them, could grant me even one wish. I do not deserve it. I deserve nothing from you. You were willing to give everything and I turned you away, like a stubborn child who struggles for what they want, and only when denied and they cry is it offered to them, and so lost in self pity, they turn down what would have made happy.
We've managed to sacrifice all the good times because of the bad. In moments of anger I said things I ought not to have said; in moments of reflection, I regret each and every one.
This doesn't mean I was the only one who was wrong. There are two sides to every relationship; you are as much at fault as I. But I believe my injustices were worse. What made them even worse than the fact I had committed them, was not knowing how they had truly affected you. However, it is a testament to how little trust we had in our relationship that you never told me. Did you think I would allow burning anger to get the better of me? Did you think I would run from that confrontation?
That is also a testament to how little you must have known me. What more can I say?
There is much more I could say; things I have learned in hindsight, questions that will remain unanswered, wishes that are yet to come true. But let us not dwell on those. There has been enough sorrow here already. I have already written much more than I had intended to, much more honestly than I ever wanted. There is no anonymity to protect us. The story's been told, the play performed, the song sung.
What I have left to wonder is this: will this help me on my way to recovery the way I wish it to?
And most importantly, who is waiting on the other side of the wall in front of me, who has possibly been waiting patiently for me to find a way around that wall, and walk straight into them?
Who is it that I may possibly have a life with?
Only with this struggle finished and buried will I ever have a hope of finding out.
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