There are many instances in my life
in which I missed the right time to say
everything that I needed to say or to do
anything I felt the need to do and I realize now
after all these times of missing the right moment
that I was nothing but a fool.

I missed the right moment because I never tried,
I missed the right moment because every moment
should have been the right moment,
and every moment was the right moment;
until it was too late.

I got closure last night.
Which is something I've never gotten
in the few years of my life
and while it may seem
like a small feat to many,
it means the absolute world to me.

I said what I felt even though
the words struggled to come out.
I choked back tears
and poured my soul out.
I took words that should have destroyed me
and instead patched up the *** holes
that had rooted in my heart.

I knew it would be hard,
I knew it would be painful,
I knew it wouldn't be anything
I wanted to hear.
Which is why it was everything
I needed to hear.

And to be told for the second time
that you were never loved
by the one person you told yourself you loved,
well it should be enough to **** you,
to leave you apathetic and filled with unending hatred
towards the universe's obvious spite with your existence
but instead, I am proud of myself.

I am proud because I took it as a confirmation,
I took it as the final step to moving on,
I took it as the answer that had for so long evaded me.

I know it's a small feat for many, but it meant the world to me.

I wonder what blurred my understanding,
what blindness I had acquired that made me
not see that I fabricated it all.

Perhaps it was my love, so powerful in its wake
that it hindered me, it stopped me from accepting
the truth that laid before my eyes.

I'm sorry for loving so unconditionally,
I haphazardly destroyed the line between
my illusion and your reality;

the worst thing about it I suppose
is that even now,

I'm still unable to tell the difference.

When you hurt me, I kept quiet,
I took my pain, folded it neatly,
and tucked it away into the deepest
and most unreachable chamber of my heart.

Perhaps it had something to do with  
the constant wear and tear to my beating *****,
but I slipped that day, and a whisper
of those words I had so well hidden,
escaped from their confinement.

They tugged on the edge of my lips
and poured out with a insatiable need
to be heard.

I had wondered time and time again
what you would say if these words came out,
the only thing I could have never anticipated
was the silence.

I used to think we could spend our lives together,
so much so that we'd talked about children,
about moving across the world, getting an apartment,
being happy.

I used to think that was what I had wanted,
to be away from everyone and to live,
to enjoy every moment of my life,
and be with you.

I used to think it would be the best life for me,
but I see now that I was delusional,
I was so desperate to feel loved
that I mistook everything between us
to be love.

I know now that what we had wasn't love,
it was my vulnerability on display
and you preying on my weaknesses,
you telling me you cared and that I,
I was the most important person in your life.

You lied.

I think the worst part about it all
is that I knew, all along I knew,
I felt the lies building, time after time
I held back everything, I bit my tongue
and failed to call you out on it.

I think I was afraid to lose you,
not realizing I never had you.

In statistics we learn that certain events
have undeniable independence,
which allows us to predict the success or failure
under certain circumstances
and I couldn't help but catch myself wondering
what the probability was that an attempt at taking my life might have
and I considered calculating the chance of success,
part of me hoping that parameter exceeded its counter part
while the other part silently prayed and dearly hoped
that the chance of failure knocked success out of the picture.

But these are independent events
and even after analyzing past trials
the only way to know for certain
would to be to carry it out myself.

Months ago, I used to apply makeup
for the sole purpose of feeling beautiful,
part of me adored the curve in my eyeliner
or the red in my lipstick; it made me confident,
it made me feel like my smile was brighter,
like any and everything I did, was wonderful.

I can't be sure when the shift happened,
but I find myself less and less capable
of enjoying the morning's application process.
I suppose it's because I no longer wear it for pleasure
but rather, to cover the darkness under my eyelids,
to mask the discoloration in my skin,
and to hide my far too visible exhaustion.