Bad for your Health

   I never anticipated the effect he would have on me; on my life; on my perspective of life and everything around me. I never imagined that one person could turn so many lives upside down. How could I predict that so much turmoil; so much pain and sorrow and hurt and fear could have derived out of something so beautiful? How could I have known that a dark fate was knocking at the door of my soul? How could I ever possibly entertain the thought that my peaceful, lovely, normal, life would ever turn so frightfully wrong?

       It wasn't all bad all the time. There was something beautiful deep inside him. I feel as though I was the only one who felt it; even he couldn't see far enough into his heart to find it. But it was there; it was hidden behind devious lies, but I believe 'till this day that something innocent was in him; glowing in his eyes. He was heartfelt and passionate and talented, even admirable in a way-and friendly and intelligent in ways no one could know. No one but me.  If only he had let it shine through. If only...

       I sit here now mesmerizing about how things used to be; thinking of the place we first saw each other. Sometimes I wish I'd never gone there; and when I wish such things I feel the pang of guilt shudder through my body.

      I sit here now daydreaming about the first time we touched...and for a brief second, I can feel the pulse of his soft fingetips caressing me. Pain follows this very real memory as I remember he is gone. That's the funny thing about memories- for that moment, you can pretend; actually feel yourself in the memory, but it's never the same as the actual memory itself; never satisfying enough. You always wish you were back in that moment exactly- that you were the person you used to be and the realization that this urge you feel is impossible- this memory you seek out can never once again be a reality- is mindblowingly frustrating.

      Memories are a tortous thing; a wretched thing that I despise enough to gladly end my life just to cease them. Why then, do I always refer back to my memories? Why is it, the thing I loath most is the thing I'm always lost in? I guess the objects of my affection are always what is bad for my health; for my soul. That's why I was with him I suppose. For just like those wretched memories, I could never get enough of him.