They say the first cut is the deepest. What does that mean, anyways? If it’s the “deepest,” then it must be relative to other cuts. There has to be more than one.
Loving you was a cut.
Loving you was a multitude of cuts.
The first cut was fine. The first cut was welcomed with anticipation, with elation, with adrenaline. I loved the first cut. I knew I would heal – sure, it’d leave a mark but I would be fine.
But the first cut never really healed.
Before it fully healed, I let the second cut make its incision. And so it began, the addictive behaviour. I embraced each cut, at the exact same spot, over and over again until I lost count.
The cuts never healed; I never stopped bleeding.
Each cut was a little deeper, a little more raw, a little more to the core. I lied to myself, and I knew it. But the elation of each cut by far surpassed my fear of getting hurt.
Until now – I don’t fear getting hurt, because I am way beyond that. Each cut remains clearly in my minds eye – when you held my face, telling I look beautiful. When you bought me my favourite noodles at the corner shop because I felt sick. When you called just because you missed my voice. When you cuddled me to sleep, wrapping your arms around me tight.
Every single time, it cut into me, because I knew I was the other girl. I knew this shouldn’t be. I knew that the moment you hang up the phone you’d be back with her and her friends, laughing and joking. That it was her who you would sleep with every night. That it was her who you promised to love.
Yes, I’m the girl that all you other girls hate. I never thought I’d be this girl – the girl stealing time from others. The universally hated girl. The other girl. The slut. The fox. Call me names, because I’ve been on your side too. I know how it feels.
But this time, I find myself all alone on the other side.
This, by all means, does not justify what I’m doing. I hate what I’m doing, yet call me weak, because I still do it. I don’t doubt he loves you. I don’t ask for him to be with me, because if he wanted to he would. I don’t ask for anything, I take what I get and I flow with it. I don’t understand why, this weird sort of love. The love where you know you can never give nor receive 100%, yet you feel you are giving way past 100%.
It makes me sick, to think that he promised to love you from this day till your last. That he promised to care for you in sickness and in health. To think of the times he shared with you, the now-empty promises. The times he has made love to you. It makes me sick to think that he has said, done and promised all that to you, yet he does this to me. It makes me want to throw up to think how many girls he has done this with, how many promises he has broken and how many hearts he has broken.
And I hate him for it.
I hate that I choose to believe that I am special, different to him. Choosing to believe that I’m not any other girl.
But deep down, I know I’m just another girl in his path. Another flower he decided to pluck from the side of the road to carry in his pocket until he got bored of it. I can’t hate him for it, because inadvertently, whether I want to or not, he has found a place in my heart. So I choose to stay here, just for a little bit.
So I choose to feel each cut, until it numbs me from the core of my being.