If you told me I was beautiful, I think for the first time, I would believe it. I find that quite sad and uplifting.
I still want you. I still feel like I need you. All I can do is imagine us together, and don’t call me crazy for that. It just means I’m really in love with the little things I know about you already, and I’m eager to know more. I want to see you mad. I want to see you drunk. I want to see what you’re like when you just sit alone at home eating breakfast. I want to know what color fills your closet the most. I want to know if you have art on your walls and magnets on your fridge. I want to know which hand you use to open the front door to your apartment and if you would rather wash or dry the dishes. I want to know what your mother is like or if you have a sister.
Maybe these questions are personal, or maybe they’re easy to answer. I just wish you would tell me. Because some days, I feel fine and having you in my life is okay. Other days, you have unbelievable control over how I feel and how my day goes.
They’ll call me foolish and they’ll call me absolutely ridiculous, and I don’t care about them. I care about you.
I was told no matter what or how I feel, to write about it until I cannot write anymore. Some day, you’ll stop writing about it because you won’t feel it anymore…or not to the fullest extent.
I really hope I wake up and I’m content. I hope I wake up to feeling like being your friend is okay and life goes on. But somehow I feel as though you’ll be the guy I’ve always wanted and never got to keep or have a chance with.
I will prove you wrong, though. You will wish that you had seen me for all that I truly am.
I can’t get over you because I never even had a chance.
You aggravate me to the point of no return because I try to move on. I consistently try to find someone new, but somehow you slip into my life and stick your foot in the door I am trying to slam shut. Sometimes - and I hate to admit it - I find you. Beneath the surface of every new man I run into and talk to, you are present. Your eyes, your laugh, and your tattoos — they haunt me. These men smile at me and I frown because there you are. Please, if you want to put your foot in my door, let it break your toes and remind you of the mistake you made by never giving me a first, a second, or a tenth chance. If you want to slip back into my dreams and grasp memories of us, I want you to slip down a flight of stairs and fall on your back to remind you of how breathless you left me and, then, of the sharp pain that continues. Please, I’m begging you. Leave me alone because I would rather be alone now than have these blissful imagined scenarios, and these simplistic, yet vivid thoughts of you on my mind.
I hate myself and I kind of wish that I didn’t. It’s not like I wake up in the morning and say, “hey, how can I hate myself today?”
No. I just do.
I hate my acne. I hate my ears. I hate my chin. I hate my arms. I hate my boobs. I hate my elbows and my hands. I hate my stomach. I hate my thighs. I hate my height. I hate my feet.
Everything physical I pretty much hate.
I hate how I stress out over every little thing because it is not what I want it to be, and when I try to fix it, I fail. The anxiety of failing and possibly, failing at a single opportunity where all needs to be perfect, scares me. I hate how my hands shake or freeze up. I hate how my heart almost shatters within my chest because I’m worried and scared of the future. I’m scared that because I have never found myself good enough, I will never be good enough.
And I don’t know how to fix it.
How lovely would it be to sit in a car and watch the snow fall to the point that all you can see is white? How peaceful would it be? Maybe I’m insane, but there’s something so pure about snow as it falls and collects and crunches beneath your feet, even. I love it.
All I want is for you to tell me things will be okay; things will work out. I know, though, you can’t because it’s unpredictable and overrated to see.
i gave up on trying to hold on. there’s only so long until you slip and fall. you’re left with nothing, but raw, cut hands, and you’re praying you have the strength to push yourself up from the ground to stand on your own two feet.