Why the everliving fuck did I ever even entertain the emotion that maybe you’d be another reason to live?
You’re not. I have no hope for us, for my future for anything.
At the end of the day I have absolutely no self control. I don’t want this, I never wanted this.
I’m sorry I can’t give you little more than utter apathy most of the time. I’m sorry for you, that is. I’m not sorry for me. I’m glad. This is how I survive, this is how I’m going to keep my head above the water.
Not that I deserve to keep my head above the water, I’m a useless waste of life. Can’t even live my dream.
Gods, I want to backhand my past self, my past self who all they wanted was a home and love. That little pathetic 13 year old creature still resides within me somewhere. She seems to be easily coaxed out when drunk, crying into just some guy’s chest because he said he’d give us a home.
Yeah, just some guy.
I don’t fucking care how callous that sounds, I just don’t give a damn. He won’t give me a home. No one will give me a home because I wasn’t built for a home. I’m a meatshield, I’m canon fodder, I am armour. I am steel walls. I am built to take hit after hit and still stay standing. People can use me to cower behind for a short time until they are stronger, and I’ll still be standing long after they’ve decided they can’t handle the intensity of forged steel.
Yet also I am the biggest, heaviest fucking blade to ever be forged in the flames of suffering. I’m built to take hits and still stand, but I’m built to deliver them, too.
I am made for war. Survival. Keeping going even though I ache all over and life feels like wading through thick mud, through poison gas to whatever is on the other side.
War is hell. Life is war.
I just have to string it out, just keep fighting for what, 30, 40 more years and then hopefully something will take me, something I can’t fight and win. And then hopefully, just maybe, I’ll emerge somewhere better. A full system reset. I never used to believe in an afterlife, but now I have to, else I’ll go completely insane. I have to believe there’s something better.
Not in this life; I know there’s nothing this life can possibly offer someone like me. Just more suffering, another, deeper circle of hell to battle through.
I can’t even live my dream. My true dream. I want to do a degree in Bioengineering. But because of my goddamn useless mind’s shitty way with numbers, that’s literally impossible.
So I’m useless. I have absolutely no skills. I can’t even make someone love me beyond superficial infatuation.
But I have to keep fighting. I choose apathy, I choose steel.
I will not fucking falter again. I will not.
Maybe in an alternate universe where you are less cruel and I am less broken,
we sit right now in the midst of that life of which we dreamed so hard that dreaming became the act of fighting.
Maybe that universe we wrote for ourselves, a mirror in which we constructed to reflect ourselves in a better light, exists. Perhaps because we wrote it, spoke it, wished for it, we made it true.
Perhaps this universe exists somewhere in the farflung web of timelines, universes, alternates, because we made it so.
Do you ever think Martha Jones wakes up and looks at the man sleeping next to her, the man she married, the man who helped her save the world in another timeline and thinks ‘yeah but he’s still not a Time Lord’.
Cause in my headcanon, she does.