Dear you, Love me.

I wrote the bitchiest, most honest to God letter to you at 3 am this morning when I couldn’t sleep because I was so fucking mad. 

But I decided not to ruin your morning by posting it on Tumblr or texting you a 15 page message. 

I hope you at least slept well tonight. 

Why isn’t there anywhere for me to run to?

I have to sit here, seething in this frustration and despair, paralyzed by the understanding that there is no one who will talk to me, no one who would lose sleep over me, no one who gives half a fuck that I’m falling apart at the seams right in front of their vacant fucking eyes. 

I’m rooted to this bed by an anguish that turns my body to stone, but sets my core on fire, so I burn alive as I am grounded into this place, beseeching someone for a wonderland to escape to, and listening as my pleas go unanswered. 

I can’t do anything right. 

You just get mad all the time.

And then you leave. 

I am alone without even a hope for sleep, because it’s hard to think of that kind of peace when the cavity in your chest racks with this much pain. If I could freefall into another world where I didn’t have to spend all night nursing these wounds, maybe then you wouldn’t hate me so much. 

Maybe then you wouldn’t have to lash out. 

Fuck this aching that makes me know how empty I am when you get mad and just leave, taking all that I offer with you without a backward glance. 

You rise, inflated from the tips of your fingers
Up with a fullness that broadens your chest
The night shines on your face and you can feel again.

Your lips curl like the ribbons of smoke wafting
Spreading their spindling veins into the blackness
Existing then evaporating like subconscious dreams that we dream for a moment and then lose.

Lavish in the luxuriant disorientation,
You revel in the lusciousness of indifference
Everything is perfect tonight.
And you can suppress any creeping doubt of the contrary with just one more lotus,

my lost one.

They seem so little.
Inconsequential.
Shadows and swirls and imprints.
And to me they just tell stories.

But I should learn to stop thinking that way.
Because I’m too open.
And that makes me vulnerable.
Honesty means weakness.

So I’ll be impenetrable.
I though closeness meant that I could share.
But it only means proximity.
I don’t know how many times I’ve promised myself that I’d shut the fuck up, but I’ll do it this time.

And you won’t have to listen anymore.
I will be strong, cold and serene.
There won’t be anything to say.
You’ll just get to look and touch.

A little doll.

No words.

It’s funny, but even in my anger I’m happy. I’m gleeful at how I get to run away again. I’m fucking pissed off, but it makes me smile.

Go green, go slow.
Go me, go home.

And you won’t see me anymore.

I’m going to miss how people actually want to spend time with me here. At home, nobody does. It’s like pulling teeth to get someone to see me. Here, people like me.

Or at least four people do.
Did.

People that make an effort to spend time with me even if they have other things to do. People who help me pack my life into boxes instead of tanning at the pool or getting high on the party life that’s so vibrant down here. Hours and hours, we spend for each other.

And now nobody will spend any effort on me.

So here I come home, this is the last any of you will see me. I hope you’re ok with that. But why wouldn’t you be? And I’ll do things for myself now. My summer change - thinking about me.

I’ll be home - far enough away from all this fucking confusion that it won’t paralyze me anymore.

I’ll get to jump.

Bouncy bouncy bouncy, up and down, up and down.

At least I’ll always have Stanley.

I can pretend like he cares about more than the leaves of trees and crosses and negatives and more covers.

Goodnight Stanley my love.

And goodbye life I build around…

Dear God,

Thank you for endowing someone with the genius that allowed them to create Bejeweled. That stupid fucking game that gives my intoxicated fingers something to do as I cry invisible, silent tears in the blackness of night. Aching, wracking sobs. But my fingers move along, arranging shapes and colors as my soul fades into darkness. Thank you God. I’m sorry.

Amen.

I don’t care what you say.
I would have still done it all the same.
Well maybe one thing differently,
But I still feel it all the same.
I still hurt, but sometimes it’s more numb,
And often times I think you don’t give a fuck about what I’ve done.
I binge in desperation, burning
Always, searching for my final calling,
Yearning.

I think Brad Pitt puts it best in Se7en when he says:

“Fucking Dante… poetry-writing faggot! Piece of shit, motherfucker!”

My sentiments exactly.