one of those days

It was one of those days.

In the crowded train you kept your head down, concentrating on that loud music blaring through your earpiece. The volume hurt your ear drums, but that was what you needed at that moment, you would rather feel that kind of pain, than that phantom pain which had lingered ever since that day. 

Yet, the longer you fixated your mind on the music, the more your thoughts ran wild. 

Lump rising in your throat.

Tears stinging your eyes.

You bit your lip so hard you could taste blood in your mouth. 

"Breathe," you told yourself. 

You tried, but the pain did not go away. 

Perhaps you should not have trusted someone so much - so much that you started showing him the real you. You told him all your weaknesses, your insecurities, your fears, your dreams. Did you not learn your lesson?

The first time you show your real self to someone, you are handing him the knife. 

The second time, you are gifting the whetstone. 

The rest, you are helping him sharpen that knife with the whetstone. 

How could you be so foolish that once again, you handed those weapons to someone, trusting that he would not use it against you. It was not the first time you had been hurt. Yet, you did it again, willingly. 

Was it the sweet words he said?

Was it how gentlemanly he behaved?

Was it the butterflies?

Was it the tight hugs and gentle kisses?

Was it his embrace?

Maybe you were just disillusioned into thinking that he cared. 

He promised to not use your weaknesses against you.

He told you he would guide you out of that darkness. 

But when his thoughts became too much, when his life became a mess, when his insecurities won the best of him, your weaknesses became his salvation. 

Words you said were turned against you.

Words he said were all because of you.

He made the mistakes, but you were the one apologising for not being enough.

You questioned your actions, you found faults in yourselves, you underplayed your efforts, because that was how you were trained to think. That all bad things happened because of you.

It was always your fault.

You were not good enough, not good enough, never fucking good enough. 

You swallowed that lump in your throat.

You blinked away those tears.

You stared at his name, his status, and that tick beside the wall of texts that you sent every few hours - checking whether he was alright, whether he received your messages, begging him to reply, to talk to you. 

Yet, the light tick remained a single tick. 

He did not read your message, or maybe he did. Maybe he saw the preview of your messages. Maybe you were just not important enough for him to spare a reply. 

He told you he was busy. Well, he had 24 hours a day, 166 hours a week, and perhaps you did not deserve that 5 minutes.

Were you asking for too much?

Were you not entitled that attention, that thought, that affection?

Perhaps you were not. Perhaps, you were meant to feel that pain. 

Perhaps you will never be fucking good enough. for anyone.