This is stubborn.
This doesn't want to come out.
This said it will kill itself before giving up.
This said it hates me.
This told me it was because I am fat, ugly, worthless, stupid, a liar, a whore, a liberal, Christian, female.
This hate that I'm writing this.
This knows I tried writing this blog 40 times in the last 3 weeks and 2 days.
Everyone's telling me I can do better. I can find myself a prince that glows in the sunlight and will sweep me off my feet.
I hate that. I hate it when they say "you can do better".
They are wrong.
I can't do better than you.
You probably invented the word better. In my world, you certainly did.
You did sweep me off my feet, and you do shimmer and glow not only in the sunlight, but also in the moon beams.
The emo quote girl inside me says: You've taught me one thing if you've taught me anything, poet boy. You've taught me that I have a heart, because I can feel it breaking.
It's never been like this.
It's never been insomnia, hungerlessness- it's never been. . . love?
I said I wouldn't fall. I said I didn't fall.
But I had fallen so far down I couldn't hear myself scream.
I think of you when I brush my teeth, when I blink and especially when I check my email.
For a second I wondered what I was supposed to do. How does one act when this happens?
I thought of stories I'd heard. Suicide.
Then I thought, no. It would break you. And I would never do that to you.
Then I thought again, and I said, I don't even want to die.
And I don't. Not only because dying would hurt you, but because I know, for the first time ever, I tangibly know that there are people that love me.
I don't because I have a purpose.
One thing really bothers me though.
It always has.
I never cried.
No. When I finally realized what was happening, I just stared in front of me and focused on the pattern of breathing. In. Out. In. Out. In. Out.
And I'm not angry.
Ok, yes I am.
But not because you just stopped. No. I'm not angry because of that. It's your right.
But it's my right to know why. Just a reason. Nothing more.
"Because you're a whore."
"Because you're too fat for me."
"Because I changed my mind."
"Because you're too clingy."
"Because I could never love you."
"Because I'm going off to college, and there are plenty of better girls there."
Anything, damn it.
Just a reason.
That's why I'm mad.
I'm mad because I thought you were a man.
I still think that.
Contrary to any evidence otherwise.
Like the fact that you just ignore me.
Why can't you just stand up and tell me the truth?
Or is that too hard?
Write me a poem then.
Write me a poem and tell me I'm a cyst.
A ball and chain.
Oh, but what hurts the most is that I still love you.
Not as a lover, because it was never that strong in that way,
but as a friend.
For a while, I considered you in the top two. Because Rachel could never be trumped.
I thought that we were soulmates- if not in the usual sense, then in the sense of I wanted to know everything about you. I wanted to feel your soul. Because I loved what I saw.
All things must come to an end.
Even good things.
I am sorry if I'm anything wrong. Any of it. If I was too touchy-feely, or if I told you too much.