sexagésima nona.

   Yes, you never lied to me. Except for maybe a couple of times. Excpet maybe for the two questions I made in your bed somewhat recently, and you answered, before saying that you wouldn't answer anything anymore, just repeat your nos and days later when I asked plainly: did you lie to me? Recently? You said you hadn't.

  But that's not what I'm talking about. You never lied about moving only if absolutely necessary. About compensating with gifts for doing less. About seeing I was becoming depleated and only being sad from afar. Only telling me that and expecting me to own it, while owning for the care you didn't get and the needs you wouldn't admit. You never lied about planning to do just what you could with the less nuisance and that you could do little, in comparison. If I put you first so many times, fuck me, you didn't ask. Also, I didn't put you first when I really should, so it doesn't count. It doesn't matter if you kept the lines blurred and didn't admit what you wanted, also.

  I'm the one to blame. I lied to myself that, when you see someone you love yearning so much, you want to. I lied that caring makes you reach further and feel bigger.

  You never lied about thinking I was cute. Or hot, for a brief recent second. You just never knew that the uglyness you see in yourself taints the surroundings, just like my uglyness touched you. It found a way to make me feel just as unwanted, crooked and unapreciated as it does yourself. The difference being I was trying to make you feel beautiful and also show up for you in all the ways I needed you.

  I'm the one to blame. For being blind to my downfall. For being what I thought was lovable and then hoping that you'd love that disfugured child. For needing love and love from you. Also just enough for me to quench my thirst for a bit. Never for me to recompose. You loath people that have too much self trust and go around spreading flames. I gave you that away. In a way, I was not anymore. And then, burning bright as I burnt away, you showed me how little I had become. And went back to not giving me anything. For a hunger you bestowed upon me, that I'd never felt before.

  If I'm the one who put me here, I must hate myself so much more than I ever knew. I'd tear myself apart to feel like I'm worthy and fell for someone who believes no one ever will be.

  A phone call is not a hug. A gift is not words of affirmation and laughing of my quirckiness is not making me feel like you saw me as your equal. Denying ourselves from future plans, always a foot on the door and so many warnings like a syren for then saying that I had you whole and you were all with me and I betrayed you and only then I lost. When you need stitches and get a meme, I hope someone tells you that they have been cut worse and that they're absolutely there. When you fear about losing your mind and your life, cause now you fear it, and start at the same time calculating the impact on your job and no one ever taking you serious again if you fail, I hope someone gives you empathetic emojis.

  Why did you offer today, why did you offer? Why did you offer your heart if not to show it? Why did you offer your hope, but said you had none, over and over? Why were you so hard to analyze, but not to see me? Why did you ask for so much touch only to deny me? Why did you go all in, but not for me?

  I'm not talking to you, I'm talking myself slit open. If every feeling I scream is another reason to be offended, please remove yourself, I need someplace and there's nowhere else. You didn't leave me a safe room inside or out. You don't smear my face around in lyrism, you do not show yourself like that in public. But you do it well enough at me. At least then I can taste your hands.