It’s hurtful to think so highly of somebody who hardly thinks of you at all.

Being with him was like dancing with the devil. It was warm and inviting, exciting and arousing, and it brought forth a compilation of emotions I never knew I was able to feel. I don’t know how I got to that point, though. I knew the rule, and I knew it well: don’t get emotionally attached… but like they say, some rules are meant to be broken. However, in this case, I wish I obliged to the former.

I never gave myself to another the way I gave myself to him, but he’s given himself away more times than I can count to anybody but me.

Why?

Because that’s how it works when you’re his, but he isn’t yours.

We’ve all been there- so head over heels about someone who doesn’t even deserve to be a scuff on the bottom of our shoe. The fight for them was fun for a while until one day you realized you were in too deep. You tried and tried to climb out of the dark hole your mind has swallowed you in but it’s like you were lost and no longer in control of your own body, your own reactions.

You no longer put forth a fight for them but instead allowed yourself to remain a convenience. He was there when you were lonely, and you were there when he was available and ready.

There is nothing wrong with being his, but there seems to be an awry sense in regard to him being mine. I’m left lonely, but taken, unavailable, but disregarded for someone who I know cares immensely. However, as we know all too well, actions speak louder than words, and his action has never led me to believe I’m anything more than just another girl on his long, long list.

There seems to be a double standard in relationships nowadays that are not only unfair, but also manipulative, degrading, and just so, so wrong. And as I lay there with my head on his chest with nothing but a t-shirt on, moving with the up and down motion of his slow breathing, I can’t help but let my mind wander about how I got to where I am, how I became so vulnerable to the idea of him.

His promises remain empty, his menace remains full, all while my patience runs thin, yet I’m still here. Hollow threats roll off of my tongue and echo through the silent room where we stand face to face, the only life from a tacit tear leaving a streak of black down my warm cheek.

He often stands there and asks me himself, “Why do you deal with me?” And I never had a reason. I never quite knew. Until now.

I dealt with him because I was hopeful, but it wasn’t until now that I realized that all I am is hopeless. I didn’t have it in me to accept that we were doing nothing more than wasting one another’s time, unintentionally breaking each other down day by day until there was nothing left to crumble.

He is not who is as fault here, though, for my inability to control my emotions. There’s nobody to blame but myself for allowing this double standard, for allowing the painful silence, the repeating heartache I know all too well. In fact, I enabled it in more ways than one. There wasn’t, and isn’t, a thing he could do to drive me away, and he knew that, he loved that; and for as long as he was willing to keep me around, I intended to stay.

So go ahead, call me crazy— I already know you’re going to. But you know, what? I’ll beat you to it: you’re right, I am crazy… for caring. I’m crazy for having these feelings that I know I won’t get over as easily as you might.

I wish I could make him see all that I am, but in seeing all that he is, I’m not quite sure that he deserves the best of me, no matter how badly I crave the best of him.