Aren’t we reaching the end of line?

You’re forgetful.
Much more than an average person.
And I hate that.
I hate how you don’t have a clue what you were going to do in 2 hours. I hate how you confuse all the destinations and activities for the weekend. I hate how you had no idea what time it was where I was. I hate how you forgot my graduation ceremony.
You asked me, was forgetfulness a crime punishable by death, because I made a habit of yelling at you for not remembering the most stupidest of details.
And you’re tired of it.
You feel like I’m looking down on you.
.
I have no way to deal with all the disappointment.
In my fantasy world, you can forget everything, unless it involves me.
In reality, you tend to forget more of what I’d like you to remember.
While you’re asking me, were you nothing to me, I’ve been questioning my “position” in your life.
.
Am I nothing to you?
.
The coward I am wouldn’t raise the question, knowing you have no control over the matter.
Part of me always blame you for not trying harder.
The rest already gave up.
All that’s left is stacking disappointment and awaiting the final blow.
.
For loving a broken doll
Aren’t we reaching the end of line?
.
.
Aren’t I reaching the end of line?

How long until you stop loving me?

I will love you until you walk away…

The moment I wrote that sentence, I already forgot what was I to say. It’s like telling you once again,

Telling myself once again,

How unlikely we are to stay as we are.

How different we are.

And I have long forgotten how to love like I once did. How to see no faults, how to try hard at everything, how to give, how to forgive.

How not to ask.

.

If I were me from a lifetime ago, would you still love me?

The me who accepted everything, the me who saw no faults, the me who agreed to everything, with that groundless confidence of Forever I thought I had in my grasp. The me who believed as long as I give love, I’d be loved.

The me who was so patient in collecting fragments of a broken memory.

The me who was so careless with my own mirror.

Even now, the me who is so careful that she forgets how to let go of the cuts.

.

I who had so many stories to tell

yet unable to utter a word of literature now.

I who thought of  you more than everyone else

yet can’t get past your tiniest mistake.

I who hated blaming somebody else for her failure

can’t seem to think of any other reason for her pessimistic thoughts

but you

who she claims she loves.

Do I love you?

Have I been in love with you?

Or was I just too caught up in my own selfish goals to ever admit I was lonely?

.

Had I loved you?

Or just the love I receive from you?

.

Am I not just a coward who too absorbed in thinking she was doing you a favor

to admit she needed your love more than her own conscience?

How was I to get through my days, had you not been there worshiping me?

If I were to talk about it long enough,

how long would it be until you stop loving me?