Wrong You

When did you become so important? You're a symbol of sadness and young-ness and yearning and lost love. You are a person to understand and to puzzle out. You are nothing that has ever existed except as an idea in my head, one that changes every time I think of you. I don't know you. I shouldn't care that you exist, but guilt and empathy and anger and jealousy have made you significant somehow. You are a small person, but you cast a giant shadow on my mind.

You are some things I wish I were, and many things I am afraid of becoming. You're that secret wish for drama and excitement and significance, even at the cost of happiness. You are many things that I hate. You are a worse and a better person than I give you credit for.

I have my own life. I have sadness and young-ness and yearning and love. The only difference is that my love isn't lost yet. I have more important people to focus on. I don't need you.

Small

And sad. And helpless. And trapped in the knowledge that I'm doing this to myself.

I liked you better when you were broken. At least then I could understand why you were so mean-spirited. Now you're just mean.

Also I liked knowing that someone out there was crazier than me. Hello, rock bottom. We meet again.

I make myself sick with thinking. I read over old secrets and relive old pain and look for reasons to push you away.

I need to turn back before I self-destruct.