you are the favorite you know. my mom’s, my best friend’s, my online friend’s.
i just want to start over. god damnit i just want to start the fuck over.
loving you is too easy. it’s something all too familiar to me. i find it exhilarating to do it all again.
to think that we’ve come from you pushing my 4th grade best friend against the monkey bars because you were getting jealous of how close he was standing to me to you messaging me two kisses and 2.5 years later that you love the fuck out of me.
i read and write about stars all the time but here i am reading the stars and i am writing that it feels to me like they are telling me we are meant to be.
us. the perfect example of two people who are finding it impossible to escape each other. we can be gone for years at a time but come back to each other like nothing. the air tastes like vulnerability and open veins and spilled blood all over again. you knew me better than anyone did. we lost two years but i’m sure you’ll know me better than anyone does in no time.
on a side note, fuck time.
i love you. you’re my best friend. come. let’s get married and live in a house (with a lizard room) together. you make all of this too god damned easy.
i read this story when i was in the sixth grade called “the long, slow burn.” at the time i didn’t know how that felt. how could i. i was only 11. fresh out of elementary school. never felt romantic love in my life.
fuck man. i spent 30 minutes crying two nights ago. my shoulders shaking. my heart breaking. sitting alone in the dark of my room after hearing you yell “fuck your sorries. fuck it all. i’m sick of all of it. i’m done.” now that was one real fucking burn.
at the end of it all. i felt like saying a prayer. like maybe, god please take away this pain. i knew i wanted to pray but i didn’t know what to say. so i just lifted my head and let him take the reins. it came out slowly but surely: god thank you so fucking much for allowing me to feel a love so real. so real it tears at my insides and makes me want to rip my heart out of my chest because i think that’ll hurt less. so real i can’t swallow because my throat is too numb from all of the venom i’ve spit over the past two weeks. not a lot of people get to experience a love this strong. i’m grateful.
i wish i could take it back. my words, my actions, everything. i want to take it all back. stitch up every cut i’ve left on your skin and maybe leave mine open to dry. my scars as reminders to never hurt you again. how could i have done that to someone i loved for 2 whole motherfucking years. i am aware of the value of words and i wish i hadn’t used those two on you. of all people.
i love you to death. i would literally die for you. my fingers are numb again and i just want to throw myself against my bedroom wall. shit would hurt less right. i remember reading “where the red fern grows” in fourth grade, how little ann lost old dan and died of a broken heart. i am almost 21. fresh out of this long, slow burn. one i spent with the love of my life.
i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry you know. i hate being alone with my thoughts because my heart suddenly gains ten pounds. i can feel it dropping all the way down to my stomach and it fucking hurts. it is bigger than i ever imagined. it is hurting so much. i’m sorry for all of my anger. all of my bitterness. all of my resentment. my heart is so painful. did i think in the sixth grade that i would ever be capable of feeling this kind of pain. no. i never knew it was possible.
i will be different. i promise.
i am convinced that god does not want us to cross paths again.
it is february 1st, hence the bible verse reference.
i am sorry i still care. my hands are shaking. if i could get any prayer answered directly i would ask to speak to you one last time.
there is a clock on my dresser. i look at it sometimes when i wake up in the middle of the night. even though it is useless. even though it has been broken for over a year now. i don’t know why i haven’t thrown it out. i think way too often about how it is so easy to replace. that old time teller. how ironic that i feel like i don’t have the time to replace it.
time. what a construct. right now i am thinking in terms of it related to you. how much of it we have lost over the years. how much i wish i could bend it. go back and defy it so that we could start over. draw out every new memory we make as if it does not exist.
i love you b. there is the moon right outside my window and i know you look at it on your side of the earth every night and think of me. i have a shit ton of chemistry lab homework to do but i’m sitting here typing away my words for you. taking my time.
time. i don’t want to waste any more time when it comes to you. i am sorry for all of the years we lost. all of the minutes we could have spent in our bundle of intimacy. all of the seconds we could have made to last like hours. i am sorry for the amount it took for you to heal. for the amount it took for me to realize i fucked up.
i don’t want time to exist when it comes to you anymore. let me leave my clock on my dresser in peace. from now on the world is ours and we are in control of it. fuck time. fuck it all. the only good thing i think it has done was leading you back to me.
you know i can’t go a day without someone telling me they’ve seen you. how upsetting is that. that they feel obligated to tell me about you because they know i still care.
i’ve unfollowed you on instagram but i still find myself going to your page every night before i go to sleep even though it’s on private. why do i keep refreshing it. why do i keep going back to it. it’s like i’m expecting something different. that’s weird. you have that same effect on me.
goddamnit. there is a world out there that we could’ve built together, you and me. imagine that. the two of us using our hands to make something beautiful. like the time we were in bed and you told me to close my eyes while you felt me. “i want to surprise you.” i remember that shit. i loved that shit. feeling your hands work their way over my skin, not knowing where they’d travel to next. someone talked to me about buddhism the day after and when they mentioned nirvana all i could think of was that.
but imagine how good all of it would’ve been. i’d tell you that there are millions of oceans i want to swim in and you’d make them out of your palms. you’d tell me that there are millions of pan-fried grilled cheeses you want to eat and i’d use my hands to sculpt them like food of the gods. and at night i’ll kiss the magic out of your fingers.
i wonder what you tell people when they ask you what happened to us. i’m pretty sure you don’t tell them that you destroyed the world that never was. i’m pretty sure you make me seem like the bad guy. yeah i let you go but i only did that because i wanted to hate you more than i did.
i think you are full of shit. there are better things i can find in my trash can. the sad thing is even with gloves on i don’t feel like digging through it.
i think i have washed my skin enough times to say today that my body is completely free of your fingerprints. it’s been exactly two months and six days since you’ve touched me last and i think that’s more than enough time. i think you’re off me.
are you out of my system though. why am i still having dreams about you. why am i still writing about you. i know we studied anatomy together but i don’t recall getting to the part about heartstrings. maybe you did though. maybe you went behind my back like the liar you are and read ahead. learned how to tie heartstrings in a knot so fucking hard to undo. that’s what you did isn’t it. you probably snuck that trick in while we were in bed and i was vulnerable didn’t you. maybe that’s why it feels like you’re still in me.
you know. i see right through you. you think i don’t but i do. you think you hold so much power over me but i know i hold just the same amount of power over you. what on earth do you do when you slide your skinny arms through the arms of the windbreaker i got you for your birthday. you think i don’t know that you wear that shit almost everyday to class even though it’s been two months and six days since you’ve touched me last. oh but i do. i know you think of me at least once a day. when you put it on or when you take it off. i don’t know but i know i’m there. i know i’m still in your goddamned system you liar. you act like i don’t faze you but i fucking know i do. i know you still check my instagram. i know you still watch my stories. i know you still read my poetry. the ones that i wrote for you when i was so close to falling in love with your system. the ones you copied and pasted into your phone notes so that even though you deleted my messages for girl #23 to never see you can still read my poetry. locked up. hidden away somewhere where #23 won’t ever get to. especially if you leave her. she’ll never get to you.
is it not crazy that the last traces you have of my fingerprints were on that windbreaker. is it not crazy that you put it on almost everyday. do you remember when i touched the backs of your ears and you told me holy shit nobody’s ever made me feel that way before. how i left my fingerprints there. i wonder if you sit in the library thinking about the work you haven’t gotten to yet. if you let your hands move ever so absentmindedly to the spots behind your ears that you know only i’ve gotten to. does girl #23 know?
you are not the last person i’ve kissed. i’m grateful. there are lips more deserving of my human anatomy. i know i’ve always cared about your education but for the first time i’m so fucking glad you failed a course.