Why do I need you so goddamned much?
Why can’t I stop crying?
Do you really love me? I’m not saying that you don’t think you love me, but do you love me?
Why am I so needy? so insecure?
Why am I so deathly afraid of it all ending?
Because I know that it will.
Do I really ask for all that much?
I don’t want to be taken for granted.
I realized last night that I was scared to leave home, to leave my bed and ease of going to his house. I will be leaving this room and the border on the wall with hidden kindly faces. I will be leaving behind the streets that I know, the memorized route to church, my landmarks. I will be leaving his house too, his room, his bed.
I won’t be able to shed my skins with him on a weekly basis, or feel his body against me, or fall asleep tangled, breathing in his smell.
And what will I do?
Could I keep up a long-distance relationship? Would he want to? Would I just get so physically lonely that I’d have to find someone I could touch?
This is all assuming we are still together.
“If only everything could be this real forever
If only everything could feel this good
I remember when I hated you because I loved you, when being around you was such pain because it felt so good, when I was depressed because you made me happy.
I remember when I started shaking all of the time because I knew that I was hopelessly addicted to even the tiniest glimpse of you, the shadow of your presence. I remember when true things and things I wished were true made me cry equally. [starting Prozac was actually responsible for a lot of both of those.]
I remember writing a thousand silent letters to you, wondering if I would ever say them, futilely trying to repress the irrepressible spark of hope that you felt the same way.
I remember holding on to the rain, to things that were beautiful and cold because I hoped that they would numb me.
I remember that I cried instead, hot tears that melted my resolve.
I remember how I stumbled through those days from breakdown to breakdown, and that you were there.
I had forgotten that. You’ve been helping me through breakdowns for a long while.
I wonder if that plays into why you love me.
And here I am, different, not quite on the knife edge anymore, and a bit of me that cannot remember how sad I was misses that tension, that inherent drama.
That’s what my characters have in common – something that is twisted. Not perversely, only in a sense that an essential part of them is skewed, and that sets them apart from the rest of the world.
I need to learn how to play the guitar.
is it better to hope and be repeatedly, painfully disappointed, or to give up hoping at all?
damn pandora. without hope we would simply be resigned to the shit that happens and not be stabbed with the thought that things could be better, that things will be better.
curse or bless the wretch, i don’t know.
i hate love.
first i curse hope, then love… that leaves only faith, of which i don’t have much to curse.
here i go again…
i wish that he had called.