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everythingissofterinmoonlight
everythingissofterinmoonlight
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I think I must’ve broken my own heart. Somewhere along the line I let go of it and it fell to the floor and split. And with each pre-destined to fail relationship it shattered only further. I go into things with a heavy heart that has always been there. It was no one’s doing but my own. I have had no love so catastrophic to do such depth of damage, this loss must have preceded them. I reek of desperation, convinced of my fated loneliness, and I both attract and am attracted to people who will only make that belief feel more like truth. Being desperate, not being enough, being only ****** to them, trying to be loved, searching searching searching. Everybody else gets what I want, they get it so easily, when is my turn, the child in me whines, stomping her foot. I carry heart break with me and it is none but my own. It carries the finger prints of no other, only my hand shape. Jealousy and anger and resentment and disappointment and martyrdom and self pity, it trails behind me like a wake. My boat, the heart break. I have convinced myself I am not for love; not made to be loved, nor made to be a lover. No one wants me, I tell myself. And then I tell myself, well I don’t want anyone. Which came first, how am I to tell? How have I had so many people, and none of them have gone well? How lame of me to blame the world for merely reflecting my own belief system. I see this now, quite clearly, I do. But what am I to do with this information, this truth? Is singleness happening to me, or am I making it happen because I want it to be there or because I believe it is happening to me? Will now knowing it eradicate it? It feels like there is more to do (as always). I must confront this belief system; this network that feels so inseparable from me. My identity had been singleness and desperation and yearning and jealousy. Who am I without her? She must be cool, under all this, all that. She must find lovers fall effortlessly into her patient lap, eyes elsewhere. They must claw for her affection because her own world comes first. She is always somewhat absent, and then somewhat always at peace. Her hobbies and her path are her passions, and she lets them happily consume her, her partner a later one. Convinctions, she has many. Guilt, she has none. Comfortable she is with taking space and asking for what she wants until she gets it. She does not stop or whine until her life as she desires it is there, is final - it's materializing done. Toward her, I will move. Until my identity is inseparable from her instead. Until like smoke, we are as one as particle and air. Until she is strong enough to pick up the little whining child of me and cradle her and say, what you were missing was self love and love of the world. You cannot blame others for what you made, and the answer is not in them. It is in you and how much you let yourself fall in love with the world. Romance is only a part of that. I will be this woman until I am her. Until she soothes the whining child and until the child, tired and convinced, presses her head to her chest and finally, finally, finally rests.
0
Nov 22, 2025
Nov 22, 2025 at 12:25 AM UTC
everythingissofterinmoonlight
broken my own heart
I think I must’ve broken my own heart. Somewhere along the line I let go of it and it fell to the floor and split. And with each pre-destined to fail relationship it shattered only further. I go into things with a heavy heart that has always been there. It was no one’s doing but my own. I have had no love so catastrophic to do such depth of damage, this loss must have preceded them. I reek of desperation, convinced of my fated loneliness, and I both attract and am attracted to people who will only make that belief feel more like truth. Being desperate, not being enough, being only ****** to them, trying to be loved, searching searching searching. Everybody else gets what I want, they get it so easily, when is my turn, the child in me whines, stomping her foot. I carry heart break with me and it is none but my own. It carries the finger prints of no other, only my hand shape. Jealousy and anger and resentment and disappointment and martyrdom and self pity, it trails behind me like a wake. My boat, the heart break. I have convinced myself I am not for love; not made to be loved, nor made to be a lover. No one wants me, I tell myself. And then I tell myself, well I don’t want anyone. Which came first, how am I to tell? How have I had so many people, and none of them have gone well? How lame of me to blame the world for merely reflecting my own belief system. I see this now, quite clearly, I do. But what am I to do with this information, this truth? Is singleness happening to me, or am I making it happen because I want it to be there or because I believe it is happening to me? Will now knowing it eradicate it? It feels like there is more to do (as always). I must confront this belief system; this network that feels so inseparable from me. My identity had been singleness and desperation and yearning and jealousy. Who am I without her? She must be cool, under all this, all that. She must find lovers fall effortlessly into her patient lap, eyes elsewhere. They must claw for her affection because her own world comes first. She is always somewhat absent, and then somewhat always at peace. Her hobbies and her path are her passions, and she lets them happily consume her, her partner a later one. Convinctions, she has many. Guilt, she has none. Comfortable she is with taking space and asking for what she wants until she gets it. She does not stop or whine until her life as she desires it is there, is final - it's materializing done. Toward her, I will move. Until my identity is inseparable from her instead. Until like smoke, we are as one as particle and air. Until she is strong enough to pick up the little whining child of me and cradle her and say, what you were missing was self love and love of the world. You cannot blame others for what you made, and the answer is not in them. It is in you and how much you let yourself fall in love with the world. Romance is only a part of that. I will be this woman until I am her. Until she soothes the whining child and until the child, tired and convinced, presses her head to her chest and finally, finally, finally rests.
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