u/Longjumping-Emu-8499

Again me if anybody has any thoughts on this piece😀

Can somebody explain that feeling of being so high, so up, almost manic? Where you just want to rip somebody apart, or maybe get fucked so hard that you forget where you came from, where you are going, and the fact that you are still searching for a job and will definitely be out of money by the end of the week.
You just want to forget about all of that. You want to forget the noises outside, how the train keeps fucking you up in the morning, and how Israel hasn’t pledged a ceasefire while millions of kids are being murdered in Palestine. That’s kinda fucking you up, but not really, because you went out today to have an ice cream and you definitely weren’t thinking of those kids while you were eating it.
And how everything keeps revolving around the same person every day. Because being honest, T, you only have nine days left with him and he doesn’t want to touch you. That rage starts in the center of your chest and you want to throw yourself out the window—not to die, because you want him to worry. You want him to fuck you, and miss you, and maybe love you too. But it sucks, because you don’t really love him. Or maybe you do, depending on the day.
But at this exact moment, you don’t. Because while you are sad, tearing yourself apart in your bed and wanting his touch, he is elsewhere doing his own thing, just not thinking about anything. And later on in his life—probably in about two weeks—he will find himself in this exact same position, but with another woman. And he will definitely not miss you. Not at all.
So at the end of your day, T, my question still remains: what are you going to do?

Hi guys looking for some validation or someone brutally honest about this piece. 😀

I want to be chosen. I’ve felt that my whole life, from friendships, to my mom and dad, to teachers.
I’ve always wanted to be chosen.
But this time, I wasn’t. He didn’t choose me; he wouldn’t choose a single eyelash of mine. Even if we spent another six months together, it wouldn’t happen. I believe he was pretty clear with me from the beginning. It hurts because of how clearly he said it. If I’m not mistaken, he told me, and I quote: “I would never love you. We are not compatible. What part of that doesn’t get into your head?”
And yet, here I am. I truly thought that after finding out what it was like to experience my hugs, my care, my jokes, and my heart, he would realize he couldn’t live without me and just love me. I wanted him to start loving me, like those cartoons where Cupid shoots the guy and suddenly his eyes turn into hearts, like a Jim Carrey comedy.
I wanted him to love me so deeply that jealousy would tear him apart, that he would go crazy and start demanding to know why I was talking to or looking at another man. I wanted that feeling you get when you look at something so cute and little that you just want to grab it, hug it, and put it in your pocket to protect it from everything.
Most of all, I wanted him to love me the way you love when you are little. Like when you are five or six years old, and you start sleeping alone because your mom keeps reminding you that you're old enough now. You cry and cry before going to sleep because you don’t want to be alone, and your mom doesn’t understand. She asks, "Is it the dark?" and shows you there are no monsters under the bed. But you can’t explain to her, because your thoughts are moving too fast. That what you are actually feeling is the terrifying certainty that she and dad could die the moment she walks out the door. You think that the moment they went to bed, their hearts stopped, and you are completely alone.
I wanted his love-hate, his pathetic love, every kind of love there is, every adjective-verb combination of love. I wanted to be his first, second, third, and last love. I wanted to be the person he thought of when he woke up and when he went to sleep. I wanted to be his love for the rain, for the beach, for the sea. And I wanted to be his love for time itself; I wanted him to want to spend every second, millisecond, and every kind of second with me.
But I got nothing.

I want to be chosen. I’ve felt that my whole life, from friendships, to my mom and dad, to teachers.
I’ve always wanted to be chosen.
But this time, I wasn’t. He didn’t choose me; he wouldn’t choose a single eyelash of mine. Even if we spent another six months together, it wouldn’t happen. I believe he was pretty clear with me from the beginning. It hurts because of how clearly he said it. If I’m not mistaken, he told me, and I quote: “I would never love you. We are not compatible. What part of that doesn’t get into your head?”
And yet, here I am. I truly thought that after finding out what it was like to experience my hugs, my care, my jokes, and my heart, he would realize he couldn’t live without me and just love me. I wanted him to start loving me, like those cartoons where Cupid shoots the guy and suddenly his eyes turn into hearts, like a Jim Carrey comedy.
I wanted him to love me so deeply that jealousy would tear him apart, that he would go crazy and start demanding to know why I was talking to or looking at another man. I wanted that feeling you get when you look at something so cute and little that you just want to grab it, hug it, and put it in your pocket to protect it from everything.
Most of all, I wanted him to love me the way you love when you are little. Like when you are five or six years old, and you start sleeping alone because your mom keeps reminding you that you're old enough now. You cry and cry before going to sleep because you don’t want to be alone, and your mom doesn’t understand. She asks, "Is it the dark?" and shows you there are no monsters under the bed. But you can’t explain to her, because your thoughts are moving too fast. That what you are actually feeling is the terrifying certainty that she and dad could die the moment she walks out the door. You think that the moment they went to bed, their hearts stopped, and you are completely alone.
I wanted his love-hate, his pathetic love, every kind of love there is, every adjective-verb combination of love. I wanted to be his first, second, third, and last love. I wanted to be the person he thought of when he woke up and when he went to sleep. I wanted to be his love for the rain, for the beach, for the sea. And I wanted to be his love for time itself; I wanted him to want to spend every second, millisecond, and every kind of second with me.
But I got nothing.