So tired of running after love.

So bloody tired, dejected, disillusioned.

Exhausted.

Of making fruitless efforts, meaningless compromises.

Of misunderstanding, and being misunderstood.

Of having it all thrown back into my face.

Of emotional roller coasters and the psychological nausea induced by them.

Of craving for just a hint of what I have given to you. To both of you.

Of the humiliation, the embarrassment, the futile hope.

Of how utterly useless these exercises are.

Of being taken for granted.

Of being wanted but not loved.

Of lusting after a genuine I love you.

Of you laughing it off and not being able to sum up even a sliver of the appropriate emotions.

And you for disappearing when I need you the most.

So easy for you to tell me to stop “running after love, waiting for it to come instead”, when you have it all down on a platter.

And so fucking easy for you to laugh my ranting off.

To disregard what I might feel like, both of you. Leaving me to shout at walls.

Permanent heart/head/stomach aches.

Stop forgetting about my existence, please. Stop taking me for granted. I am bloody sick of being a friend to you. Just sick of not being given the response I would die for.

And to the rest of the world, stop bloody whining about how your body aches, how it’s so meaningless when you’re not together, how it’s not working out.

At the very fucking least there is someone who would give up their existence just so you could have the life they want you to have, someone who thinks every bit of you is delicate porcelain, someone who fucking worships you, wants to spend every living moment with you.

I feel like I’m squeezing out love, wringing it out of my heart, to give to those who have none for me in return.

Believeyoume.

It hurts more than I care to admit to your face, that I make the same mistakes every damn time and it always ends up in me overdosing on Damien Rice and company.

What I am to you is not real
What I am to you you do not need
What I am to you is not what you mean to me
You give me miles and miles of mountains
And I'll ask for the sea

From Modern Love by George Meredith

By this he knew she wept with waking eyes: That, at his hand's light quiver by her head, The strange low sobs that shook their common bed Were called into her with a sharp surprise, And strangled mute, like little gaping snakes, Dreadfully venomous to him. She lay Stone-still, and the long darkness flowed away With muffled pulses. Then, as midnight makes Her giant heart of Memory and Tears Drink the pale drug of silence, and so beat Sleep's heavy measure, they from head to feet WEre moveless, looking through their dead black years By vain regret scrawled over the blank wall. Like sculptured effigies they might be seen Upon their marriage-tomb, the sword between; Each wishing for the sword that severs all.

I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel - Maya Angelou

Faith.

Forgive me, for I sin.

I've become indifferent now.
To all of you.

And it's weird, but that's the way it is.

Godfuckingdamnit.
I need something to break.

And yes, I am angry. I can't be expected not to be.

So angry, I don't know how I'm resisting the urge to start shouting at walls and making scenes. Or stepping on shards of broken glass. Or refusing to speak to anyone at all.

That is the whole trouble with this love thing. Falling in love is like cutting your heart into pieces and everytime something ends, you leave a piece with whoever was kind enough to break it off. If I keep going this way, I'm going to need serious therapy. And so I won't.

It's not your fault, I'm just angry and I need to let it out. I knew it was inevitable but sometimes you have to throw out hollow curses just to see if someone will listen.

Another one bites the dust.

Here we go again.

Honestly, I give up on love and everything to do with it.

I try my best, I give it all I have and in the end fate still manages to screw me over.

I'm through with boyfriends. And love. And whatever else it is that people harp on about. It never works for me, and through no fault of my own.

Sometimes I feel like the defected piece someone picked up in a hurry and threw away after they realised it was broke. That's what it is.

And even if you don't have expectations, it hurts like a bitch.

=)