Not All Love Stories End Well

Butterfly suicide

I am the luckiest human alive
To have found my savior,
My redeemer,
The one who keeps me alive
And shows me this world
Is not always ugly,
That there is something to live for
Amidst the horror reels
And insipid greys.

Yet, as the years have ticked by,
I have felt your scorn,
I have seen your lows,
And I have realized
That in all your greatness,
You cannot satisfy my self-deprecation,
Cannot fill my voids
Or consecrate my insecurities;
And every effort I make
To use you as my medium
To transubstantiate my sorrow to joy
Has failed miserably.

What I could never admit—
Because it would invalidate me
And prove me the fool I know I am—
Is that I placed you on a pedestal,
Expected you to pull me from the maws of hell
Without ever raising a hand to grab yours,
And in fact, I jumped right back in,
So that no matter how you chased me,
You would never catch me;
I would run your feet bloody
And your lungs depleted of oxygen,
And still convince you
That you should have done more to rescue me.

I was the luckiest human alive,
But now I exist in your colossal shadow,
Shuddering, teeming with anxiety and despair,
Always dreaming of you,
Reaching for you,
And killing myself over and over,
For I know I had one chance,
And for however blessed I was,
I am damned sevenfold now.

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