I’ve been toying with the idea of letting go. Letting you go. I keep thinking of ways to tell you how I feel, that I feel like I want to die, that I’m drowning. I tried once. I can’t remember, but I don’t think we’ve spoken since. I’m stuck on this merry-go-round of trying to please you, loving you, and wanting to die because you’re preoccupied and to take up more of your time makes me a burden. 

I can’t imagine life without you. I’ve held on this long. You told me that there was never a day when you didn’t think of me. How was I supposed to react? I fell in love all over again. I feel shamed because I misinterpreted. Sacrificing a life in the sun with friends waiting for a piece of mail that I’m becoming a paranoid schizophrenic over; is it coming? Did you send it? Or are we back to being kids and switching roles?

Your life is shit. You’re unhappy. I want to make you happy. But how can I genuinely make you happy when I’m drowning and choking waiting for you to even notice me? How can I make you happy when I’m dying? If and when you notice, will you notice at all?

Should I send you a letter, take down all my journals, become something you told me: “we were never lovers. we were never friends.” 

Would it be easier to just say goodbye to something that never really was?

(Source: Dollshousedropin)