untitled

very emo stuff, but it's about all I can do right now.

The same words that had been on my mind more than a dozen times, been on my lips more often than I’d care to admit, these same words came to me as hers.

“I wasn’t good enough for him.”

I know well that comforting words are not comforting, and that no matter what anyone says, being in that deep, dank, hurting little corner of ones heart does not get any easier through any means but time. I say the words anyway. Try anyway. My lips professed that she wasn’t the one who screwed up.

The rest of me ached with the half-wish that love didn’t exist. Without it, people wouldn’t do half the stupid things they did, let alone deal with the repercussions of broken hearts, shattered dreams and waking nightmares of the bitterly cold truth of the fleetingness of commitment.

It always comes down to the dumpee blaming herself for being imperfect, unfulfilling, unsatisfying and ultimately the lowest form of life on the planet. If we cannot live up to the standard of being a goddess, we dive, like so many bipolar thinkers do in the heat of hurt, to the opposite end of the scale, proclaiming within our very souls to be the lowest creatures we can think up. In my case, monsters. Ultimately, all love does is make us hate ourselves when it doesn’t work out.

Women, at least. Some guys, too. Most just drink a little bit more, play some Xbox, shrug their shoulders and say “Whatever”. They don’t hurt much over it, because they know better than to think poorly of themselves.

Women? We blame ourselves for everything. We simply cannot accept that we are any good, because we are not perfect. We are perfectionists of the worst kind. Sore losers in the most deadly game there is: life.