There's nothing interesting about me, except the fact that I really should stop switching blogs.

Another pretentious way of saying "Bitch, please."

No more caring; no more loving; no more knowing, and in an unmarred decisiveness, leave.

My mind's more made up than my bed on Sunday mornings; my hunger for the possibilites have ceased it's wanting, along with what I thought was perpetual faith I placed in you and—on the occasional lonesome nights—us.

Because the Zaimie (that's right, don't exactly give a fuck about protecting your secret identity anymore) I knew stopped being him. In it's place, to my disgust, is a cheating son of a bitch who churns lies, one after another, like hand-made butter.

I don't doubt what you have with Quincy (so sue me) is love, one that I believe neither of you are willing to lose. But I, with every trickled tear as witness, have bore the full impact of your cheating ways and manipulative lies, and I know first-hand the self-loathing and endless questions your selfishness will never answer that comes with the realization of your fibbing ways.

Does it not haunt your sleep that your denial and refusal to right the wrongs and lies you have conceived for Quincy—because the truth always comes out eventually—will one day break the heart of the boy you claim to love and make him doubt every last belief you have instilled in him?

Trust me, I know so clearly the pain that comes with your errs, and it haunts me every night while you sleep like a fucking baby with no conscience to speak of.

Does a reason of "not wanting to lose him" justify your choice to not taint the relationship with your lies? Do you not believe that by lying in the first place, you have already set an expiry date for this relationship? Do you not see your own selfishness, do you not understand the impact of such a secret? One lie heeds another, and the cycle, at the end of the day, will hurt someone to such an unthinkable extent and guess what?

It's not going to be you.

So save your hypocrisy by justifying your choices with the love you have for him because that, is not love. That is another one of your self-serving excuses to benefit your own desires, and it sickens me to the very last bone.

You're afraid of loss, you're afraid of pain. Between them and you is a nauseating ability you have honed well over the months to do everything in your means and beyond the fringe of conscience to separate them apart.

But guess what, Zaimie?

You're not alone. I believe I am afraid of loss and pain as much as you, or Quincy, or anyone else who lives and breathes.

I'm your first victim, the very first lab rat to your warped perception of love. I have suffered, dealt and contained the hurt to the best of my abilities. Sad to say, 19 years of thinking I've stocked and sufficed in preparation for the injuries loving you has sustained has proven that I might as well be as clueless as when I first started out.

With all the love I can muster for you; with all my leftover sanity I beg of you, let me be your first and last victim. Don't let your folly go any further, don't let someone else go through the same agony you have put me through.

If you choose to follow through with your choice and leave Quincy be in a jar of 'ignorance is bliss', then I have nothing more to offer to you. The Zaimie I love and want to be there for will cease to exist from then on, and you and I will be mere strangers who have no wish to extend our relationship any further than that.




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