writing about not writing

I don’t have enough words to say what I need to say, but whatever it is, I feel like I need to still put together something to untangle whatever uneasiness I have in my heart (and mind) now.

I am out of words. I am out of ideas or ways to get you out of your shell, to fully embrace me. So lost that I might wander myself. I guess it’s true that you can’t fix anybody, even someone you love. Boy, that has gotta be the most difficult thing for me to accept.

I am still part of the loved ones. I am not.. me. I am not a single person who came into your life, hoping to make it brighter. In fact, I am somehow a part of your misery. A part of your anxiety.

A part of your unhappiness.

I am one of them.

I am tired of being perfect. What’s the use of being perfect if it doesn’t help you? What’s the meaning of perfect when all I can do is watch?

Perfection is nothing when it comes to you. Your “other” loved ones were perfect too. What’s the difference?

I am meant to be different. I am meant to be life-changing, if not completing. I don’t mean to complete anybody’s life – I am meant to complement.

I guess that’s what I’ll ever be. Complementary.

A poetic cat
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