I'm So Sick of Writing About You

I've been spending all this energy on you but you're taxing so I never have enough and now I'm spent. 

You've twisted my perception that I am not good enough for you, but that is a lie. a fairytale. a fallacy. 

I'm so sick of hearing love songs, and I'm so tired of crying these tears, and I'm so done with wishing, that maybe against all odds we could be. 


Your wildfire ignites an obsession I can't put out. Crying and begging and praying that God will extinguish the coals that burn for you, while wanting them to spontaneously combust, consuming the rest of my splintered heart. 

Bartering with God over my worthiness to gain possession of yours. 


Loving you is draining. 

Wanting to leave but not being strong enough.

My dependency crippling. You course through my veins, rendering me unable to function very long without you.


I know I should withdraw before I drive myself back into darkness, focusing solely on being your light. 

Self-preservation so distorted that I can't even let go of you to save myself from drowning. 

Chest aching with jealousy, heart beating erratically every time you mention her.

Convincing myself that you're better off without me and we probably wouldn't have made it anyway.


You've exhausted the "maybes", "ifs" and "we'll see's". They're contingent figments of an intangible future I'm coming to accept we'll never have. 

And you know what's funny? I'm talking about you as if we were together. But this is all ex thoughts acknowledging ex feelings of my broken heart that weeps over the fact that you aren't even my ex. I speak through my pain, not my experience.


And then the realisation hits. 

I never had you. 

You were never mine. 

But unfortunately, despite all of this, you're still relevant enough for this poem to exist. 


And I'm just so sick of writing about you but, yet again, here I am, writing about you.


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