Restless with the thoughts of not being good enough. Prisoner of my own mind for it’s the only that won’t tell me how disappointing I may be. I’m perfectly imperfect to myself. Yet no matter how many people alleged to love me, it was all a lie wrapped in faulty words of “I love you.” They didn’t love me. How could they possibly? Always reminding me of just how flawed I may be. Always reminding me that I’m the monster of their dreams. Evil like the spawn of Hades. A mistake in the making if they so dare to deem. Yet no one sees the things of these eyes: it’s always I to blame, for I make a good escape. Temporary on their path. Unsuspecting to the future. A capital suicide discovered as I chose myself over another. You see, while I dare to dream all the things love could be, it just didn’t love me. I tried, plenty of times, to be the Prince Charming of reality proportions but the truth is: I’m just a frog in good clothing. Apparently, because nothing ever last: that has been the only consistent variable in these things that could be inappropriately labeled as a “relationship.” The more perplexing thing is that I’m not even upset: I’m just prepared to take my last breath alone wherever I may be found lifeless, wishing secretly love would have loved me. Secretly wishing I could have the one priceless treasure some are so seemingly fortunate to discover.
– Alex N. Wanderland