Insecurities

It seems my insecurities overflowed.

So much it got apparent to the ones who are keen to watch.

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Now, everyone is insecure. Not a single person can live being completely sure of themselves. There are those who work hard in hiding it, some are extremely good at it, some aren’t.

I’d like to believe I’m good at being confident in my life choices, considering I lead an extremely fortunate life. Or maybe that would just be me bragging. I’d like to believe I can find the answers to all love trouble. I’d like to believe I know.

At least I know, as long as there’s someone who needs me, I will be okay.

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I wonder if I need more, or if I want more.

From a love that needs me there to survive. One that has nothing to offer but his company.

You said, I was only using him as an anchor. You said, you didn’t trust his type of love. You wouldn’t elaborate.

Sometimes I thought I’d want to be alone, single, detached. I’d want to live a life where I wouldn’t have to need anyone. I’m emotionally dependant on how people see me, so much it hurts just to think of it.

Realized how much I don’t want people to hear my thoughts.

I don’t want to give my feelings a name, fearing they would become so real to bear.

Do I even know how to love, or I only know how to call a feeling of longing to be together?

Does anyone here know how to love another?

What kind of image am I trying to build?

How we fall apart?

How exactly did we fall apart?

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You must have stopped asking that way before that January.

How we were never meant to be.

And how I lived in my own reality. Whereas I don’t exist in yours.

How insignificant and unimportant I was.

How desperate I must have seemed.

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Let me ask again, how exactly did we fall apart?

While scrolling your history, unconsciously I searched for “us”.

Though I’ve never been there. Whatever I was, wherever I was, I was not there. Like a thin veil of smoke from the end of your cigarette, maybe I really was not there.

You picked up smoking.

I picked up drinking.

Maybe that was one of the signs, that we stopped caring.

That I stopped caring.

The me who stepped away, was it the same one who reached out for you in the end?

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The me who always did what she wanted.

The me who always said what she wanted.

And the you who smiled.

Who pulled me in for a kiss. And held me.

I tried to recall, though reality seems to escape me. No matter how I tried, I couldn’t grasp the memories I thought we had.

I remember your smile. But that’s all I could pull out of the pool of thoughts I would have spared for you.

A little unsatisfied, a little bitter, a little lost. When you were so much, yet I was so little. There was the feeling of incomplete, and anger awaits at the edge of sanity. But it never got me. Angry, pained, disoriented, I was not.

I stopped writing.

A part of me just seems hollow. As dried out as the me who waited. Feelings running in circles around, none got too close.

Try as I may, I can’t seem to know how to feel when I think about you.

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I always stopped myself short of worshipping you.

Careful to not ever overstate your actual meaning to the me I am.

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And we continue to fall away from us.