The Cat's Out Of The Bag...

.:It Gets Worse And Worse...:.

I look at the stabs across my arm, and I can't help but reminisce about today...

You know what? You came to my house to taunt me and make me feel miserable about myself, and you have the nerve to tell me it's "making up" for yesterday?

You showed up at my house, lorded over me how horrible you thought I was, and now, I feel even worse than I did when this day started, having been treated to your exceptional callousness.

You tell me that what I've been doing has made you upset, yet you actively mine my Plurk, my blog, and everything else to find your "information", completely bereft of context, completely bereft of everything that indicates that after all this time, it was you and only you that I wanted to be with this much.

Nobody, and I mean, nobody, has made me feel this miserable, on my own birthday, no less. I've given my everything for this relationship. Ask anyone. Ask Doc Tess and Jester how bad I still want to be with you. Did you take that into consideration? Did you think, while you were going through my blogs and my Plurks, while looking to find something wrong about me there, that maybe, you should just understand that none of my friends would want to see me like this, and would rather just have me be a casanova so they wouldn't worry I'd just hang myself?

Why do you think that until now, I've been doing everything I can to keep what's happening to me under wraps? Why do you think up 'til now, I didn't want to write about what happened to us? Because I never wanted my friends to say a single bad thing about you. I let them think I was fine and dandy, a lot of them thought I'd moved on and I'd be okay, because that's what I needed to do to keep the peace.

Well, the cat's out of the bag now. I'm not okay, and I've never been hurt as much as you're hurting me now. You went to my house to taunt me, to rub it in my face that I'm a failure at this relationship and that you can do so much better. You gloat over the fact that I'm not "loyal", when all my friends want to strangle me for being so blind to you. You revel in making a mockery out of my integrity, knowing it's the easiest excuse for you to dump me, and still have people side with you for doing so.

I hate that I love you this much. I hate that every word you say has such a hold on me. I hate that you play me for a fool because you know I'd fawn all over you if you so much as asked me back. I'd eat all the ridicule from my friends, I'd take all the insults in the world, if you'd just come back to me.

But you wouldn't. Because you're too blind and too insistent on finding fault in me than in finding the good that we had.

So if you're leaving me now, know this: I've never given anyone as much love as I have given you, and I hope to God, that if I ever love again, I never will give even just half as much love as I gave you. Because this wretched feeling of failure you are leaving me with is killing me now, and I don't know if I can survive.

Two students from Ateneo have killed themselves this semester, thus far. I can't promise anyone I wouldn't be the third.

I'm sorry.