It scares me; scares me a lot.
The unwavering resilience I had is now long gone and it’s been replaced with a myopic tranquility. Zero fucks given. I don’t care anymore and that’s terrifying to me. I don’t care, me of all people in this world. I’ve grown into being this woman of 21 with no feelings. A woman who once had so much to offer that her sensitivity used to catch people off guard.
‘Surely, she’s mistaken to put her faith in everyone’
‘She is an over doer. She over cares
‘Too sensitive. Can’t deal with her’
Well, you got me. You broke me. This world broke me and I’m scared I’m never getting back. I’m irreparable. I’m inescapably damaged. It’s irreversible, you see. The pain and the hurt and the anguish, all of it has left a permanent mark on my body. It has massacred my soul into decimals and I’m never going back.
I had all this love inside of me to give. It was a lot. It overflowed and wasted. Where was it supposed to go anyways?
So the next time I have to allude myself into giving in. I’ll pretend it’s me. Even though I’m remotely a fragment of a person I was. I’m a remainder of a promise.
I’m a ghost.
I’m long gone.
But, no, you weren’t the one who left me; your friend of fourteen years, for a boy who broke you mercilessly years later anyways. No, you weren’t the one who betrayed me by taking sides of the one friend I fought with and fed her lies. No, you weren’t the one who couldn’t choose me simply because I wasn’t the popular one. No, you surely weren’t the one who lied repeatedly to my face, deceived me in order be good enough over that other boy. No, you weren’t the one who stabbed my back multiple times and decided to spur rumours about me. No, you weren’t the only best friend I had who gave up on me at my lowest claiming my depression to be self-pity. No, you absolutely weren’t the one who had me up till 4 am talking about galaxies, time travel and how rainstorms are eerily beautiful only leaving simply because you wanted to. And undoubtedly you weren’t the one treating me as a side bitch who stopped mattering once the time was over. No, it wasn’t you guys exploiting me for your benefit.
It isn’t any of you. But now, I’m addicted to borderline slaughter. I kill myself everyday.
“How can so many people come and go and be wrong?”
Well they did. (Let’s pretend) Maybe it really is me and it’s all in my head. Maybe I’ve been too much of a fucked up case to be fixed. Maybe it has nothing to do with the life I’ve lived. Maybe I am in over my head.
I’ve killed myself a thousand times and more. I’ve skinned the tips of my fingers raw and bled onto the sand.
“What is it that you’re thinking?”
‘About the countless times you’ve made my heart bleed. It’s in a constant jeopardy of blood loss.’
Maybe it is me. It probably is. But I reiterate: I don’t give a fuck anymore.
© Rushna Imdad. All rights reserved. Published on March 22, 2017.