Rants of A Voluntary Sufferer

I'm sick of having not even one person left on this earth who would care enough to listen to my rants about how much sickness I am feeling; not of you, but of myself for being continuously deluded by your manipulative sweet talks.

I'm sick of this sickness as much as they are sick of my every word every time I make a sound;

for my every word is based on my every thought, and my every thought is processed in my mind,

of which its back is where my thoughts of you have lingered for as long as I could remember,

despite my attempts on washing you away from it.

You keep coming back.

I keep being quiet.

Everyone keeps asking what's wrong with me.

I say I'm fine, because I wouldn't bother to disturb anyone with my repetitive stories of you ever again; let alone let myself be slapped in the face by the advice of those who assume they know better about my emotional roller coasters better than I do—or do they really do?

They pointed out how you had been playing with my feelings,

how I had been blinded by love severe enough to not see it,

how I had been fooled to think that you were everything I had dreamed of;

when you were only treating me this way because you loved seeing me beaten down.

You loved seeing yourself win in the circles of what I thought were chances and hopes,

but turned out to be nothing but a game to play for you.

I didn't realize I was in a game,

because as how the characters in fictional games are;

I thought that the scripted plot of the story was my only reality.

I thought that your efforts to pull me back closer to you every time I take a step away were real,

only to find out later that you had done that because you knew.

You knew how satisfactory it would be for you to get me back near in your tightest grip of control, so that you would be able to suddenly let go of me just when I begin to think I am finally in the safest hands.

You revel in witnessing me falling far down below over and over again,

but not up to the point of hearing my fragile being hit the ground and shatter into pieces,

because the hole you dropped me into was the deepest that had ever existed.

You didn't know whether or not I hit the ground in the end,
let alone how much it hurt to fall.

All you knew was that I had a moment of flying before the fall,

and you thought I might have enjoyed that.

You thought you had given me the happiness of tasting freedom in boundless depths,

of which I also thought was the best thing that had happened all throughout history;

until I hit the ground and tasted the hurt, without you knowing any of it.

You're already too high up there with your bulging pride,

too far from the mess you had made out of me to be aware of what you had done.

I wish I could crawl up and pull you down here into the misery,

or at least get back up there to stab you and twist the knife;

as cruel as how you didn't only make a wound on my skin, but you rubbed salt upon it.

But if I had the chance to be with you again up there for one last time,

I know I wouldn't be able to do those things to you.

I would instead repeat my mistake of letting myself fall into your ambush again,

in spite of how you had been hurting me and how much likely it would endure.

I guess, being held in your strong grip for a brief moment was still unbeatable;

and I would redo it at the cost of anything.

Even if it means that I have to fall again,

and even if it takes getting hurt again.

Everybody keeps asking me why I still choose to fall into your trap again,

without you knowing that I had figured this all out.

You thought I was the easiest victim to deceive,

when I am just a voluntary sufferer.

I knew that all that you had given me was nothing but a trap; that you had caged me.

Yet here I am stating that I don't mind as long as you're the one who holds the key.

Even if they had warned me of the worst scenarios;

that what if you would purposely let my cage open as you throw it off into the dungeons of hungry lions to finish me off?

Because it seems like all these times, you had tried your best to make me die;

and you were repeatedly close to success.

But as you take pleasure in my pain,

you always decide to offer me a spark of life just when my feet are on the brink of the gate of death;

only in order for you to be able to replay the slow scene of my tears and the sounds of my screams.

But then again, why does it always have to be me?

Why don't you just kill me now and pick another pawn to prey upon?

It's not like you're humane enough to feel the guilt anyway.

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