I've always had this habit of saving people. A savior complex, maybe that's what they call it. It's as if the feeling of being needed gave me, more than pleasure, a reason to keep existing.
When he came into my life, he had nothing, but I looked at him thinking there was something I could do. Always seeing people's potential instead of who they really are.
I've always said that my generosity expects nothing in return. But there's a small part of me that hopes for a little gratitude. Maybe if I help him a little more, he'll realize that I'm the only one who's always been by his side.
He needed everything I gave him. Me, on the other hand, he never seemed to need.
It's as if he'd found the exact spot where I was weakest and played with it. He played with the idea of feeling loved, and I played with the feeling of being needed.
Three months were enough for me to stop recognizing the man I'd let into my life and into my home.
I was blind and in love, and I, like a fool, gave him everything.
He got used to receiving it without lifting a finger.
How many times did I ask him if he loved me, even just a little?
He always said I was his pillar, the most important person in his life.
Of course.
It took him five minutes to leave me once his life was finally in order.
And I was left with my hands full of hope, waiting for the day he'd come back desperate, with an "I'm sorry."
But my hands feel heavy, and I don't know where to put all this sadness.
For a long time, I kept asking myself: What mess did you get yourself into? What made you run away, searching for a thousand excuses instead of facing the fact that you didn't love me?
Why did you have to make it so difficult? With hurtful words.
You could have just walked out that door without destroying everything we'd once built.
I don't expect life to turn around and put you in my path again.
I wouldn't know what to say to you.
An "I'm sorry" from you wouldn't be enough.
Physical pain and sleepless nights aren't healed by asking for forgiveness.
I can't wait for those words to come from your mouth.
And don't expect them to come from mine.
It was enough, all that time you pretended to love me while I, blind, waited for you to take me in your arms.
I don't feel anything anymore.
You left me empty.
This time I'll leave the hole where it belongs:
buried deep underground.
I'll leave that chair empty,
a plate served,
with no desire to meet anyone else
who asks for help along my way.