She’s stronger than me

destroy

It’s extremely difficult for me to stand out in a crowd. I don’t recommend trying. I’d rather be working behind the scenes, gathering momentum, gilding lilies, serving as the wind beneath your wings.

On the other hand, I crave love the way an addict craves his addiction. Notice I said love, not attention. Narcissists can’t tell the difference. I know this, because I grew up in a house full of them. It’s kind of a miracle I survived intact, without giving up one drop of my integrity to go with the flow and become one of them.

The other night, I couldn’t sleep, brooding about a charismatic woman I used to know and the crumbs she left me on the stepping stone to “bigger, better” things. She’s living large, while I’m still playing small ball as is my nature.

She left behind two kind, beautiful people. They would’ve done anything for her. They gave up their entire lives to be in her presence, to be loved by her one more time. After she got done bleeding them dry, she moved on, leaving them empty, too empty for me.

I came around too late, way way too late.

I barely see them anymore. They seemed to have crumpled within themselves, haunted by the devastating words she said, labeling them, condemning them, damning them to an eternity of loneliness and crippling self-loathing.

She did the same to me, only I bounced back in the time it took for me to write her off. I grew up with Narcissists, remember. I’m used to this shit. I was also born with this compelling need to reach out, no matter what I’ve been through, despite the fire. I will till the day I die, often in the face of repeated rejection and the silence that speaks volumes, the silence that continues to divide us.

People move on. I should, too. Only, something inside me stays, politely knocking on their door, asking to be let in, please oh please see me, please love me back. I write her victims copious amounts. I pour my heart and soul into these love letters almost every other night. I even dream of them, for god’s sakes.

Still, they won’t, they can’t respond. She made sure of that.

In other dreams, I’m forever cleaning up other people’s messes. I do that in real life. I wonder if that is my role in this particular cycle. I hope not.

In my fondest, deepest, darkest dreams, I entertain the stupid notion that I can save them, that my one act of sacrifice will open the door, heal the wounds, like a fucking pathetic Hollywood movie, and they will see that I am worth their time, one more time.

But then I wake up, I’m so sorry. She wins.

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