I’m trying to remember why I was so enamored by you. I don’t know, but even now your old letters make me blush. Even now, your sentimental whispering and soft caresses. We laughed at the girls that still swooned about you, but here I am. Not swooning, so much as I am remembering with a broken heart. In November I was yours, and only yours. I refused you, pushed you away. I didn’t think you’d actually let go. In January, I was going weeks without talking or seeing you. I am so stubborn. I am so scared. You gave up. I am not surprised, was not surprised but I was hoping against all hope that you would love me enough to stay. You would love me enough to wait. I am so selfish. My back locks, my neck tenses, and my eyes burn whenever I am near you now.
But you can’t tell. You kiss my lips and you use your fingers to glide over the skin of my hands. You tease me relentlessly. The tables have turned, and I’m doing nothing to reach across for your hand. I don’t want it.
I don’t want you.
I’m not sure how I feel about things, but I know that I like you. I like things about you. I like the shape of your eyes, and the way your hair feels between my fingers. I like how dedicated you are to your family, and how you brought your littler brother to the picnic during the summer. I like how you’re so ambitious and excel in everything you do. I like how responsible and dependable you are. I like everything about you, but I just. It’s me. I don’t like you. I like you, but I don’t like you. Does that make any type of sense? No? That’s fine. I just wanted to get this out there. This— that I like you, but not enough to like you. We always talk about getting on a plane and never looking back. I’d like that. Maybe with time. Yeah, maybe with time and good eats and good memories we’ll be able to build on this. You’ve been nothing but nice. Do I want nice?
Jesus. I don’t know what I’m doing. I don’t want you. I don’t want to having any sort of claim on you. I was just looking for someone to call me beautiful on occasion. Someone I can release all this pent up affection on. I shouldn’t do this. Not to you. Innocent, naive you. No, I’m so wrong for this. So wrong for pretending to care about you in some sort of romantic way. You’re just an outlet for me. A way to pass the time. I don’t need you. I crave him. Him! I can’t have him, but God, dear God, do I crave him. Crave his presence, attention, and touch. Electric. Chaotic. Wrong. I crave him. I want you, but I crave him! How? How is that possible? You are so kind, and sweet, and thoughtful, and beautiful. So attentive. Too good for me. I deserve this, you. I deserve someone nice, and good, and positive. I crave misery. Crave being happy in my own sadness. Chaos. Lust. Lost love. Happiness in negativity.
It’s sort of like I don’t know how to speak because there are so many questions I don’t wish to answer. I don’t want to talk about so many things, because I know some things will lead to those things. I don’t want to delve into those things. Not with you, not alone at night when I’m trying to sleep. I don’t think because sometimes it hurts to think and I don’t want to hurt. It’s better to keep people at a distance instead of letting them in. That’s why I don’t have grand adventures anymore. I don’t want to hurt anymore than I already have. I don’t want to lose anymore than I already have.
There’s an innocence that still
lingers on the lips that smirk
pout, smile.
Lips never calling for help,
or hands reaching for penance
from anyone.
Scream hypocritical words
of ambition and success.
The wrong kind of kinetic energy.
I want to make this work
I want to see this through
Maybe it is my stubbornness
I just know I need to see this through
I want those precious things with you
I want your innocence and your honesty
I want your humility
I need to know that we are normal
I need to know that we can work for a while
I need to make this work
