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Infatuated Part II
My heart is confused. For so long, six months and counting, I’ve been faithful to you, even when I didn’t want to. You made me so many things once I saw you again, after some of the desperately crushing feelings wore off. You made me mad because you didn’t return the feelings, you made me feel guilty for being mad… It was a constant rotation that seemed to layer one on top of the other.
At this point my throat hurts, tightened from the control I’m trying to keep on my voice. My eyes are blinking away salty moisture that clings to my lashes and feels wet when I close them. I am in a sad and anxious depression that eats at me from the inside. I didn’t know for sure whether or not you liked me, those forbidden words you spoke to her and not me.
You are one of the only girls in this school I’d ever go out with…
I can hear your deep voice, saying these to her, your mouth forming the singeing letters. It makes my breath come in short gasps. I sat there, on the other end of the phone, and talked to my old friend like nothing was wrong. I even prompted her to admit her feelings for you.
I like him… A lot.
He’s so handsome, and sweet. He told me I’m pretty.
Simple, innocent sentences that murder me slowly.
Such short, elementary words, and yet they are as cunning and sharp as a machete. Homecoming is on the way, and even as you are my dream date, I asked her in a bright voice if she planned on asking you. When the answer was no, I encouraged her to. I told her it was the best way to ensure another girl didn’t get to him first, that she needed to have courage.
And God says suicide is a sin.
Yet here I am, feeding myself a sin, mouthful by mouthful, and I swallow it with the pain of watching your face melt in with another’s.
Her face. Your eyes. Her smile. Your dimples.
A watery and depressing collage all mixed in with my tears.
And then I can’t take it anymore.
The dam brakes, and I curl up under my covers, hyperventilating. All that time I wasted, all I took for granted. I longed and angst over a reason for you not to return my heart, and now that I have it, I beg you to take it away. The ocean of blissful ignorance we floated in would be a thousand times better than this.
The worst part is that I hate myself. I betrayed my own heart for another person. Some may look at this act as one of self-sacrifice, and then praise me for it. But they don’t feel what I feel right now, pulled under the surface, drowning in my own shock- the empty echo of my heart, the beating is hollow and forced, no more joy. No more happiness.
I can’t help but think back to when I first met you, and how differently you treated me. I remembered, with a sudden shocking clarity, all of my responses and actions. I wish I could take them back now. Maybe it would change how you look at me. Maybe, maybe, maybe. But do you know what the worst part it?
It isn’t the burning in my eyes, the pressure in my head.
It isn’t the swelling of my chest, or the constriction of my lungs.
It’s not the memories or what just happened.
But it’s the future.
Because I know I won’t be able to see you again. There will be no more glancing sideways at you, indulging in my own self-pleasure. No more rare grins when I decide to speak to you, or you to me. No more awkward, one-armed hugs. Not even these things will be allowed.
Because I would literally begin to kill myself if I allowed it. The pain that accompanies such actions is unbearable. It will be a constant burden of what I can never have. I must think of myself, even if I don’t want to, save myself from my own destruction.
I will always- not love, exactly- but care for you deeply. I will remember what happened between us with a forever ache in my heart, dampening in my eyes.
If there is a smile on your beautiful face, it will not be from something funny I said.
If your arms are wrapped around a body, it will not be mine.
And if someone thinks of you in a hopeful way, it won’t be my mind.
I’m so ready for something new, something that doesn’t hurt as much as you.
The perfect boy I used to know, the one of my dreams.