rantingsofvenus

[rantingsofvenus]

Milk and Two Sugars

We don’t go on dates anymore.

I cannot pinpoint when the burning love you once had for me fizzled out to a mere spark, but with every day that passes, I grow colder and colder. Fighting to not be blown away in the icy February winds, I try to find comfort and warmth in your touch but receive no reminder of how much you love me; your body is lukewarm, a forgotten cup of tea left out for too long.

Milk and two sugars.

I know how you like yours, can you remember how I take mine?

[rantingsofvenus]

Blooming Sunflowers

I relapsed today.

This world devastates me; I am a wilting iris in an ocean of blooming sunflowers, dying under the scorching sun whilst others open their buds under the golden rays of light. As my dried petals fall to the ground, I cannot find solace in the fact that I will, once again, blossom next spring.

I wake up afraid of what today will bring and fall asleep in fear of what tomorrow will; the cycle is perpetual, like the waxing and waning of the moon. My therapist tells me that when I am down, I can take comfort in knowing that there will always be an up, but all I can think of is that after the up, I will be down again.

No matter how hard I try, I cannot be fixed. Captured by the analogy of a broken mirror, although my pieces can be anchored together, I can never be made whole once more.

[rantingsofvenus]

Hunger

My boyfriend texted someone he used to see tonight. The notification “Bea liked your message” merely popped up on his phone innocently, swiftly dismissed by his calloused finger, but it set ablaze the millions of matches that are my insecurities; she’s prettier, sexier, and thinner than I could ever be.

I am rotten, maggots crawling through and devouring every piece of me, where she is the golden apple even gods and goddesses war over. I look in the mirror and do not recognise the girl staring back at me – her eyes are dull, her hair unruly, and a lump of fat stands where her body should be. She is just a stranger with a face a little like mine.

Syllable by syllable, I struggle to swallow my question of why he texted her; I cannot bear his response, what would be empty words of affirmation and meaningless sorries, because he did text her. Although the contents of their exchange remain a mystery to me, I fear for the worst; he tells me that he loves me every single day, and I know that he believes that he means those 3 words, but my very being rejects that notion – I do not believe that anyone could ever love me. Maybe some girls are just meant to be alone.

As I sit here, smoking my last cigarette of the day on the brick wall in front of my flat, I pray to the ever-expanding night sky and stars, scintillating like citrine gemstones, above; I pray to them to let the nicotine on my bleeding lips take away my hunger forevermore. Not just my hunger for food, but my hunger for a home, my hunger to be desired, and my hunger for true love.

Maybe this is all love can be.

[rantingsofvenus]

[rantingsofvenus]

I Wish I Were Different

I wish I were different. Some random day after I was unwillingly born, a day nobody can distinctly identify, my glowing future morphed into a constellation of mistakes, bugs and typos both written by my own hand and by the hands of others. Maybe I am just different.

My therapist tells me that I need to accept that I am not going to be able to control everything and everyone around me, that good enough is good enough, but the loud voices nagging at me in my head do not ever stop to constantly scream at me, to remind me that I am not good enough, and that that means that everything I do, say, think, and breathe has to be absolutely perfect to atone for the fact that I am me. I wish I weren't me.

I am an addict, a harm to myself, a liar, anxious, depressed, manic, obsessive-compulsive, and unstable, but I do not know how to change. Maybe I don't really want to change. I hate every atom, every fibre that constitutes my hollow being, but being different is a distant daydream, a cruel, empty mirage that I can never fully grasp and force to become reality. Most days I do not even want to wake up, but rather sleep and sleep, to fall into such a heavy slumber that not even the end of the world could jolt me awake to the nightmare that is the brain and body I have to survive every single day.

Maybe what the future holds is the perfect family, living in the perfect house on the perfect street, having the perfect kitchen to bake perfect apple and cinnamon muffins in; still, I am just not sure that I can keep enduring for a maybe – the scared little girl that is my very core is so afraid of failure, of not being or having perfection, that it seems easier to simply let the dark and neverending ocean engulf me.

I know that I am more than fortunate to have what I do have, but every part of me incessantly wonders what and who I could have become had the brutality of life not ravaged me in ways I could not even begin to describe. The people around me have always had such high hopes, noble dreams for me, and I am reminded daily that I have failed them, that I am a failure for never having been the perfect daughter, girlfriend, friend, and person. I don't recall ever having been proud of who I am and anything I have achieved.

Maybe it is only me, or maybe this cold, uncaring world has not yet made space for people like me, people who struggle with just getting up in the morning or remembering to take their 4 medications every night, but either way, I don't think I will ever belong.

[rantingsofvenus]

One of my favourite songs at the moment.