baktron (baktron) wrote,


in retrospect, it wasn't that i was never good enough for them. it was more the case i was never good enough for myself. and never good to myself. and i can't place a finger on when all this self-loathing had begun materializing itself. it could possibly stem from the break-up with Sophie when i was 14. but i'd been harming myself before we'd even gotten together. but her dumping me, in a letter, heightened it; the self-hatred. and thinking about it, i've never let myself recover. instead i played on it, to the point of madness. it drove the consecutive partners mad, and myself beyond madness; and i don't know which is worse.

i say horrid things. and i scare myself not knowing if i genuinely mean them. i lose myself and i let it ride. and it brings me to dark places where my subconscious inadmittedly wants to go to and dwell in. i say horrid things to drive the ones i love (or think i do) away and i succeed. i want to make the relationship fail. and i succeed. i succeed in failing. do i really succeed? or do i fail because i am crying for attention with the wrong words and the eminent comes too soon. i don't know anymore. and this bottle of merlot isn't exactly helping, or is it?

i tell myself i will change; and change i do but not holistically. this jealousy is imprinted in my bones and it runs through my veins ever-growing and one day it will manifest itself and i will drown in it. the only way to be rid of it is to be sucked dry of it. i will go in timeless fashion; lying in a pool of bright red jealousy.

this time i've outdone myself. i've constructed the most intricate web of stories yet. i play them in my head and they repeat themselves; re-writing their plots as they go along, the colours desaturating as more villains start to appear. but this is the only story where the victim is the villain. where the villain turns into the victim of his own actions. i am a victim of my own psyche. it is consent to the cognizance of a downfall. it is the raising of a white flag. there is no cure, no help to receive - when you are your own victim.

i guess i will leave it at that. there is no point in saying anything anymore. the damage is done and the situation is beyond repair. i take my hat off to myself, for another well-performed elaborate play. the stage is in an unholy mess and i am too tired to get my act together and clean up the remains of this emotional massacre so i will leave and wander, bringing my troupe of sadist theories with its lone dying star, until i find a new stage, pure of debauchery, to put up a show again. but this story has been played too many times and it is losing its novelty with every performance. it is nearing its end and it's had a good run, too long a run in fact.

this could be the end, but only if i allow it. though i think there's still room for more hurt to be inflicted.
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