It sickens me to read them all. My stomach drops with each letter I read.
I feel insecure. I feel like my heart is being ripped apart with every love you had shown her; with every similar words you have said to her, that you're saying to me too. And yet I continue scrolling down. I keep reading your posts to each other. I keep looking at photographs I wish doesn't exist because it makes everything real; because no matter how much I want to deny them, they serve as your memories. But I continue looking anyway, knowing full well that what I'm doing only gives me a self-inflicting pain. I never knew I'd become a masochist.
I wish I could delete them all. I wish I could delete her. But I can't go back to the past and undo everything. If I could, given the things that i know now, I'd redo so many things. I'd never let you go that first moment we met. But I am no superwoman. I can't do that. So now, I am left with no other choice but to try and ignore these unwarranted insecurities I feel.
Still, I can't deny the fact that it's killing me. It's killing me how I absolutely know that I'm never going to be able to compete with what you two had. She gave you many firsts that you may again experience with me but I know it won't feel as amazing as what you felt with her. And the thought that you may be happy with me now but still it can't compete with the happiness you felt before makes me very sad. Almost depressed.
I won't be able to fill the hole she left in your heart...or will I? But...am I just that then? A filler? Someone you need to fill in that emptiness. Or am I greater than the love you felt for her?
What am I to you? What's my role? Who am I supposed to be when I'm with you? Because no matter how much I don't want to feel this, I feel like a replacement, and it sucks so much. So. fucking. much.
I feel insecure. I feel like my heart is being ripped apart with every love you had shown her; with every similar words you have said to her, that you're saying to me too. And yet I continue scrolling down. I keep reading your posts to each other. I keep looking at photographs I wish doesn't exist because it makes everything real; because no matter how much I want to deny them, they serve as your memories. But I continue looking anyway, knowing full well that what I'm doing only gives me a self-inflicting pain. I never knew I'd become a masochist.
I wish I could delete them all. I wish I could delete her. But I can't go back to the past and undo everything. If I could, given the things that i know now, I'd redo so many things. I'd never let you go that first moment we met. But I am no superwoman. I can't do that. So now, I am left with no other choice but to try and ignore these unwarranted insecurities I feel.
Still, I can't deny the fact that it's killing me. It's killing me how I absolutely know that I'm never going to be able to compete with what you two had. She gave you many firsts that you may again experience with me but I know it won't feel as amazing as what you felt with her. And the thought that you may be happy with me now but still it can't compete with the happiness you felt before makes me very sad. Almost depressed.
I won't be able to fill the hole she left in your heart...or will I? But...am I just that then? A filler? Someone you need to fill in that emptiness. Or am I greater than the love you felt for her?
What am I to you? What's my role? Who am I supposed to be when I'm with you? Because no matter how much I don't want to feel this, I feel like a replacement, and it sucks so much. So. fucking. much.
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