aw this is too sweet. he wasn’t my boyfriend actually, but we had a solid relationship and then he just kind of lost interest and it broke me apart a lot. it hurt so much because he was my hope when i was struggling and wow honestly i sound pathetic talking about him, but basically i fell in love with a boy who wasn’t rightfully mine and he left and it hurt
and I don’t think I could forgive you for it if I were given the sun and the moon in exchange for an “it’s okay.”
See, you shouldn’t just expect an “I love you too.” You shouldn’t brag about going to lunch with another girl. You should not have sat next to her instead of me, but you knew that.
It was a complicated, twisting road, but I promised you that one day I’d love you, and I told you I’d stay. I stayed, and I loved you every day. You promised me you’d stay, and you told me that you loved me. You left, and you left. Love and leaving are not inevitable crossroads. They are words, and you were never skillful with your words nor taught to use them for good rather than evil. You crushed the pebbles that I used to write about when you walked through my driveway. You silenced the river that used to sing to me in my dreams. You defined my metaphors and made them into similes. You tried to make me realize that what I wrote and what was true were only similar if I joined them with a word of comparison. You never let me break your skin or wipe your blood as it leaked out slowly. You never let me sew you up- well enough that you were still the same person, but rough enough that I would leave a mark. You bought me band aids when I asked for help, and you stroked my knees when my elbows bled. It was a long January, but it was the one that led to February. This February, I fell in love with the buzzing of my heart when your hands rest on my hips. In March, you kissed my lips and sealed my heart with scotch tape. In June, you ripped it off slowly and painfully, but I could not bring myself to finish it for you. In July, my heart still bled for you, and in August I learned how to sew myself up enough, though it is not well enough that I am still the same person, and it is so rough that you left a scar. It is September now. Metaphors are my favorite literary device again, and I haven’t dreamt of you in weeks. I have kindled our the novel that you gave up on after a few chapters, and I have drafted it into perfection. Our sequel may be titled “moved on,” but our story is a monologue, and a memoir, and an autobiography of the time I spent being instead of wishing and saying instead of thinking. It is a world of ill-minded people, ugly motives and happy accidents. You are my most beautiful motive and my most clear-minded pursuit, but my saddest accident.
I’m mad at you because your voice has changed, and you’ve gotten taller, and you’re still wearing that white shirt with the hole in the back of the collar.
You ruined my idea of love; I had thought that love would walk through my door when I was lonely, hug me close and whisper that it’d all be okay. Love-before-you was pensive; he asked me to tell him about the rain. I traced the veins in his hands and told him every little last secret that was a piece of me. He knew exactly who I was, and he held my hand in public. I was his girlfriend, and he was my boyfriend. He was my best friend, and I was his. This love wasn’t common, but we knew it was true. Love-before-you spoke in an even tone, and I hung out with him every weekend. We hd picnics on Saturdays, and we cuddled on Monday mornings. The love I knew was silent but enthralling; he drew my silhouette with flowers in her hair. He was a boy of freedom, a guy of intelligence, and a man of balance. Love and I, we did yoga when we were stressed out, and he took me to football games with his friends. Love-before-you would’ve wiped my tears before they fell, given me his jacket when I was cold. He would’ve held my trembling hand each and every time I was nervous. I would’ve had a picture of him plastered to my locker; his kisses would spin me around in circles, and he would make butterflies in my stomach as brave as they could be. Love-before-you was helpful, kind, and healing.
Love-during-you was a joy. You were a secret and a whisper. Love with you was confusion and clarity at the same time. You were gentle, and love-during-you was stronger than everything else.
Love-after-you screwed me over. Love is harsh; he does not stay. He is as useless as a crop top in the winter or a big comfy sweatshirt on the hottest day in the summer. Love-after-you splinters my feet and makes walking painful. He is careless and riveting in the most extensive ways. Love-after-you pulls me underwater and holds me there long after I can’t hold my breath any longer. He is terse in his goodbyes, lacking in his words, sober from sneaking glances. Love-after-you hasn’t told me I’m beautiful; he doesn’t make me feel smart or kind. Love-after-you sucks, and love-after-you hurts, but this is my fault and his bony knees and ashy elbows still look a lot like a four letter word that starts in L and ends in O-V-E. Love-after-you follows me, even when I run away.
It’s the kind of feeling you hide away. You’re nervous more often than not, and you’re quieter than you used to be. People notice, but they don’t say anything. You’re okay; you seem to be doing fine. You’ve just calmed down a bit- mellowed out. On Friday nights you’re nestled in your bed, and on Saturday mornings, too. Lemons are your new favorite thing, and adding them to your water burns fat apparently. Your hair clips don’t scatter the floor, hide behind chairs, cover the counter in front of the mirror. Your eyes aren’t outlined in makeup, and I’m pretty sure they don’t open all the way some days. Dance isn’t your thing anymore, and you’ve got no energy left to play soccer. Jogging might work today, but the airy, lightheaded spinning sensation spreading from the top of your head is telling you that running isn’t going to be an option today. Nobody knows, but yesterday you didn’t eat one bite. You planned not to today either, but your dad made you eat dinner with the family. It’s been a long day, but you can’t tell anyone why. You can’t explain the pit in your stomach all day after someone asked you how you got a cut on your wrist, and you can’t tell anyone the truth. Blood never looked so pretty as it does while it stings you in the hot shower, welling up in perfect balls of red and then streaming down your thigh, spreading into a watered-down pink when it hits the white, tile floor of the shower. It’s hard to identify why exactly you’re shaking because you haven’t felt many familiar, nameable emotions in a while. Perhaps your body is shaking for lack of food, or for blood loss. Maybe your mental instability is manifesting itself in your unstable hands which have taken on a shaking, trembling, frantic behavior similar to that of a Parkinson’s patient. It’s 12:30, past midnight on a Tuesday night. It’s technically Wednesday at this point, and in 6 hours you have to be getting dressed for school, smacking on that million dollar smile that’s hidden more than any mask ever could. It’s the kind of smile that shines brighter than the smile of a girl with 10 years of effective therapy. This smile has secrets, and if it doesn’t do its single job, to fool people, then there’s more at stake than another year in therapy. You’re scared at 2 AM because you just survived a panic attack. The fan has never whipped air at you as violently as it did then. The crickets have never been so loud, and the multitude of clocks have never before amplified their tick-tocking so naggingly out-of-sync as they did right as your heart beat increased and sweat welled up on your forehead. Panic attacks are something, and sometimes they’re so difficult to deal with that they seem unreal. The way your muscles tense up at a million miles per hour, and the way your head throws itself back and fourth as if you’re searching for a way out is all too real, though. Panic attacks are hard because there’s always a brief confusion of whether to scream for help- not knowing that there’s nothing to be saved from other than your own mind- or to clench your teeth and squint your eyes and hope that if you don’t acknowledge this feeling, it might go away. It’s 4 AM and your body is no longer damp from sweat or cramping from your muscle tightness, but the images swirl your mind still. The sounds of the crickets and clocks are more manageable now, but present nonetheless. You’ve got to be up in 2 1/2 hours to go to school, but instead of thinking about what to wear or how to do your hair, you’re thinking about what the hell this feeling is. You think you’ve encompassed it in the word “hopeless” or in “despair”, but even those words can’t begin to describe the utter desperation to be relieved of this feeling nor to describe the sheer certainty that it is impossible to feel normal after seeing, hearing and feeling these awful things. You think for a brief moment that you’ve actually become these things, and that’s scary because they’re scary and it makes you scary. So you hide it away, these thoughts, these things, and these feelings. After all, you’re not positive what the hell just happened, but you’re beyond sure it’s not something you want to go through again. You’re sure it’s a part of you that you don’t want anyone else to know.
When the smoke cleared from the room there was only one thing left as a relic of you and how you destroyed me. Your scent and the smell of your hair after a smoke break drifted out of the couch cushions whenever I sat down, and there was an influx of bittersweet memories every time I breathed a breath of what used to be. Your hair pins scattered the corners of the room, and they were beneath every rug. I began to realize that I could romanticize anything if I could see the kisses from our latest nights in the brown metal pieces that always shocked my fingers as I stroked your hair. It had been a long time since your glassy eyes had looked into mine, and I anguished for those metallic blue eyes to shed a tear in my presence. I wanted to hold you, to comfort you. I needed you to know that you are the most important thing in the world to me, and I needed you to stop being so mysterious, to stick around, and to let me in. Your pale skin never saw the sun, and that was okay with me. Your freckles danced under the moonlight, and I adored that. I adored that you became alive at 7:00 every night, and that you fought the fight every day that you didn’t want to. I know your demons are loud, and I know your only peace lies in the thin cigarette paper resting on your lip, but darling you are beautiful. You have been beautiful since the day your button of a nose squished against mine, and you have been beautiful since my eyes saw your shoulder blades grasping for the sun as you walked away from me. There is yet to be a day where I don’t smell you, when I don’t breathe you, and when I don’t feel you in the crevices of my heart that would happily rest as tear ducts for the heartbreak you left me with, but your smile assures my heart every day that there is no reason to cry when the world gives you so much god damn beauty.
A book, a woman, a pair of new shoes, and glasses. She was intellectual, yes. But intelligent? See, the examiners hadn’t gotten that far. they decided she must have been married because the shoes were far too nice to have been the offspring of a school teacher’s salary, which was her decided profession based on the book. They thought she might be a writer too. There had been a pen clipped to the book, and little pieces of paper throughout the pages where she had taken notes and wrote her own story or variation of a sentence. The shoes were telling though; they were expensive and black- simple but elegant. They told a story of their own. They would carry this woman to fancy gatherings of fancy people where a book-reading, glasses-wearing school teacher would never fit in. Her husband held her hand, and she felt at home in a place that was all wrong for her. The shoes were not walked in, but they had been worn once or twice. That itself was a mystery; how can something be both unused and used at the same time? She was mysterious like that. They donned her to have a mental illness as all the great writers do. The psych doctor who was urged into her hospital room in the last few minutes of the woman’s consciousness had suspected schizophrenia. Her eyes depicted un-earthly characters and beings with unreal voices. She was a human of depth, and the deepest parts of her were separate from her entirely. It was a wound up mystery, but the items in her purse were far less suspicious to me and perhaps less telling than the fact that she neither carried a wallet nor a phone. But the detectives were sure: this was her doing; she had wanted to leap in front of that car. She had wanted to finish her own life.
As one of the last five people alive on Earth I have to say, there is nothing more I’d rather do than be with you. I never believed in afterlife experiences like heaven and hell, but I can assure you that hell exists. Hell is waking up and supposedly being “lucky” because everyone is gone but me. You know how in the movies people are always trying to escape what’s hurting them; they’re always trying to fight for their life. My fight went with you though, and I’ve never been so willing in my life to surrender the tender muscle fibers and frail bones of my body. I don’t believe in heaven after I die, but I believe in you, and the concepts are pretty close. You can make the most acute pain feel gentle, and you can soften any vivid trauma. To lie in the grave next to you would be peaceful for sure, and I’ve been told that it takes about four people to dig a grave for one. I wonder if it is too selfish of me to ask to be the last person on earth to be buried. I wonder, if you would still love me if I was selfish.