#why do I have to scavenge every crumb about how to fix myself all these years

[contents404]

Or maybe we’re “fake” adults, because a REAL adult would have organized their life by now and would be adulting all the time with ease, because adulting is just, by definition, all the things you’d do if you were a real adult.

Yes. This. Every time I lose myself over some small things and wonder is it just me or are all adults panicked this easily.

I assume adults get their shits together? Which I can not. I pretend I’m ok. Rest and go insane when alone. The more stress from work I get, the more insane alone time I need. But a day only has 24 hours so I lose my shits whenever I can’t keep the balance.

And I get to hear my younger coworkers who just got to their adulthood getting their things together and organizing their lives perfectly fine. Then I look at myself and can’t stop thinking just what kind of a mess I am. Starting question myself if I ever grow up a thousandth time.

[missjanjie]

My Beating Heart Belongs to You | Vanjie Prose

Title: My Beating Heart Belongs to You Summary:  this is a prose/stream of consciousness piece from vanessa's pov as he reflects on his relationship with brooke lynn and the emotions that come with heartbreak (disclaimer: the views expressed by vanessa vanjie mateo in this piece are not reflective of the author's opinion) Word Count: 558 Relationship: Branjie, but passively Rating: T

Read on AO3

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I am not broken. I am not weak. I am only a person with too much love in his heart. Too many emotions to fit on a sleeve. I am not sad, but I am empty. But the emptiness grows, and I don’t know how nothingness can weigh so heavily on my soul. I feel like I’m losing it, but I’ve long forgotten what ‘it’ is. The world is chipping away at my psyche because everything reminds me of you.

Going outside hurts when the sun hitting my skin carries a warmth I found in your arms. I can’t step foot on stage without being reminded of our love that played out as a performance for the world to see, how we became spectators in our own story and felt every ounce of love and loss all over again. Staying inside is no better, especially in hotels like the ones we had our first and last encounters in. The blankets burn my skin and leave me itching for your touch and no shower can wash away the ever-present yearning.

It wasn’t your fault, that’s what I’ve kept telling myself. You couldn’t control your desire to be free, to escape the hold I had on you. But I never understood why you kept coming back to me. Each time my heart would leap into my throat, hanging on to the sliver of hope that this time would be the right time. This time would make you mine again. And each time you left, and another part of my heart shattered and died. I never learn, do I? Maybe I’m gullible, a lovesick fool who got addicted to all that makes you up. I got addicted to your smell, your touch, the sound of your voice, and time after time you played the dealer, giving me another fix, another fuck, a warm embrace.

Nothing was ever enough. I was never enough for you, nor were your crumbs of affection enough to satiate my appetite. You made a scavenger out of me, kept me on my toes, ready to hunt for just one more taste of you.

Enough to feel pathetic thinking about it. But not enough to stop.

Sometimes I think this is what you wanted – to know I’m always there for you to fall back on, to hold as your safety blanket. For you to kiss like a lover at night then brush past like a stranger come sunrise. Maybe somewhere down the line you’ll grow tired of the loneliness that surrounds you inside the walls you’ve built up and you’ll come running back to me. Because you’ll know I’ll still be there with open arms.

And I want you to be wrong. I want to have found love again when you come around. Just once, I want you to feel the heartbreak you’ve plagued me with every fucking day of your absence. I want you to show up at my door, begging forgiveness, only to see that I have the perfect life without you. For your heart to plummet into your stomach as you become painfully aware of everything you’ve lost out on.

But that will never happen, and it kills me inside. It kills me to love you as much as I do. And I die inside each day knowing it will never matter enough to you.