Not for anything I always preferred to disappear than to be forgotten. Being the one who left was never as tragic as being the one that never came.
If my daddy issues had a button, you merged your finger with it becoming a direct access. “Throw a fist in my eyes, kill me with grief but love me”. Says a Spanish song, in contemporary times it would be “Throw up all the alcohol that you have in blood but do not forget that you kissed me”.
Because the context of this is that you do not know and I do. I am the Google of the previous night:
A window that you clicked exit. Because it suits you and your obtuse freedom has no problem with killing me.
That the pillars of my self-confidence are threatened by your fifth extra glass seems irremediably poetic. I do not think it’s collateral damage, but a premeditated murder that your lack of control brought me down from my imaginary pedestal.
Recovering is difficult. Is to review the reasons why we fell and take off, once again, each of the tiles that society adhered to our floor. It is to remember why we have to love ourselves and fight forty-five times so that those reasons are enough to send ibuprofen to our soul before we get out of bed and be just fine with a self-hug to leave the room.
I do not know if I recovered. I still do not know if I am enough. I know that I see you and I understand that enough is not you. That it was never you. That is not about you. That the one that agreed to get into the ring, knowing that my internal referral was broken, was me. The fault is mine.
I see you and I’m not angry with you, I’m angry with me. Giving you more power over me, than the one that I have, is not giving it to you, it is giving it to everyone else.