Maybe One Day I'll Find You

Maybe one day I’ll find you and I won’t hate myself so much. Maybe there will come a day where I wake up happy instead of disappointed, where I don’t set an alarm an hour early to cry and get ready to get ready for the rest of my day. Perhaps there will be a day where I wake up beside you and I won’t feel so alone and miserable and worthless, rehearsing over and over the nihilistic beat of my life. Because I’d have you, and that would be enough...

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1. Maybe One Day I'll Find You

 

Maybe one day I’ll find you.

 

Maybe one day I’ll find you and I won’t hate myself so much. Maybe there will come a day where I wake up happy instead of disappointed, where I don’t set an alarm an hour early to cry and get ready to get ready for the rest of my day. Perhaps there will be a day where I wake up beside you and I won’t feel so alone and miserable and worthless, rehearsing over and over the nihilistic beat of my life. Because I’d have you, and that would be enough.

 

Maybe one day I’ll learn to love my name, and the way you say it and write it and hum it through the grit of your exhaustion drenched morning voice. Maybe I’ll learn to like nicknames and bleach away the way they used to tear me apart. Maybe I’ll let you use some, maybe then they won’t be so destructive.

 

Maybe one day I’d let you know just how crazy I am; my obsessive compulsions, my manic paranoia; my erratic, illogical and permanent state of anxiety. I’d tell you about my nightmares and my looped thoughts and my chronic fear of horror films and needles. Maybe you’d leave me, but maybe you wouldn’t and maybe you’d tell me how crazy you are too. Maybe you burn your hands for comfort or pick at your nails until they’re raw. You probably don’t and maybe that scares you but maybe it doesn’t and you don’t leave or freak out or freeze up. Maybe you just hear me, maybe we just talk.

 

Maybe you would care about me, maybe you’d tell me you care and you’d mean it. Maybe I wouldn’t second guess everything and I wouldn’t call you a liar. Maybe I’d smile or my heart would clench, in a good way, instead of sinking like it does now. Maybe I’d feel safe with you and I wouldn’t spend every waking hour with knots in my stomach and panic in my head. Maybe there would be butterflies in my ropey organs and maybe they’d die and you’d get sick of me but maybe they wouldn’t and you would stay and I’d be alright.

 

Maybe one day you would leave me, or I’d push you away as I so often love to do. And everything would be okay. Because you made me feel something, even just for a little while and that would be enough. Maybe I’d move on and I wouldn’t be so broken and shattered and fractured. And maybe I’d feel bad for how I used you, how I let you build me up with no payment in return. Maybe I’d run into you some time later, in a bar or a café or some Tescos somewhere and you wouldn’t be mad, because you’d have moved on too. Maybe we’d become friends again and we’d sit up late, drinking red wine and talking about the way we were. Maybe you’d tell me you care for me still and maybe I wouldn’t get angry or mad or call you a liar because maybe you would have fixed me and maybe I wouldn’t feel so worthless and empty of any self-esteem.

 

Maybe I’d be happy and maybe I wouldn’t want to die. Maybe one day I’ll see the point in living because I’d have someone if not you. Maybe we’d have dogs and a house and neighbours and friends. Maybe I wouldn’t be this way anymore and it would all be so foreign and far that I couldn’t even describe it anymore.

 

Maybe I’ll see myself as you do or maybe that’ll never change. Maybe I’ll always hate myself but god, could I love you. I could love you with my whole being. I could love you more than I never loved myself. I could love you so much that the word loses its meaning. I could love you if you were there:

 

But you won’t be.

 

You don’t exist. You won’t exist. Because I am fucking crazy and lonely and dead inside. I am paranoid and anxious and scared. I am hideous both inside and out. I am dumb and numb and stupid and mortifying and bitter. I am hateful and hated and worthless and disgraceful and you are not.

 

So, this is how I know you don’t exist. Because if someone like you could ever love me I’d know then you were a liar, and I’d be right.

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