If you read this, good. If you don’t, that’s okay too.
I want to call you right now and tell you how much I hate you for making me feel this way. Hate is a strong word. No, I don’t hate you. But I’m close to it. I’ve never hated anyone in my life, but you make me almost hate you. I want you to know how much you’ve hurt me. I say I don’t blame you, and I don’t. But I resent you for coming into my life and then running away as soon as I started to need you. I’ve never needed anybody, ever. But now I need you, and I hate that you’ve made me this way. I hope you’re hurting as much as I am.
I want to call you and tell you how much I want you here right now. How can one person make me feel this broken and still be the only one I want to hold me while I cry? I want you to tell me all those things you told me about myself, not because I believed them, but I liked hearing you say them all the same. I want you to pray for me. I want you to help me be a better person, because I’m too fucking flawed. I want you to come here so I can punch you and then hug you and punch you and hug you some more.
Should I have tried harder? I almost hate you for this, but I know my issues are what really fucked it up.
Edit: With that said. If you can’t accept me for the entirety of myself, then you’re better off without me, and I’m better off without you. Maybe you’ve let something good slip through your fingers. And how could you do this to me knowing I’m at my most vulnerable? Disappointed.
So is this why they always write about it in books. If only I’d listened.
I swore I’d never become one of those girls. What have you done to me?
I’ve never not wanted to be myself more than at this moment.
here, living with you,
love is still the only subject that matters.
i open to you like a flowering wound,
or a trough in the sea filled with dreaming fish,
or a steaming chasm of earth
split by a major quake.
you changed the topography.
where valleys were,
there are now mountains.
where deserts were,
there now are seas.
we rub each other,
but we do not wear away.
the sand gets finer
and our skins turn silk.
There is probably nothing left to say. It would be the same stale words again, and it would be thoroughly uninteresting. I’ve exhausted the ability to care any more, or any less, I’m not sure which. I will not try to understand it. It is, this is. I will carry on however and end up wherever.
(After tonight, that is. Rainy night + Bon Iver = a perfect opportunity for what I do best. In a strange way, I enjoy it.)