A life lacking is evident if you find yourself with nothing to do. If one more second is stolen away by boredom I swear I will have no choice but to want to die, for my life could not be worth living if I was so unworthy that I saw it to have nothing to offer me in a time alone.
Indoors is limiting. Youth is limiting. Youth is supposed to be freedom. It is not, because we need restraints, because we cannot restrain danger and dangerous people. That is why I am inside.
That is why I am always inside.
What of all the plants? – I know some of them by sight but none of them by name. I have not forgotten, I just never knew.
You’re going to leave soon,
and you’re going to forget about me.
You can’t deny it, you know,
and so you shouldn’t.
And it will be the saddest day all year for me
when you do go.
And for you it will be the happiest
because you’ll be in Europe
with people you really love.
And I’m sorry that I sound
so incredibly bitter,
but I guess that
I just sound the way I feel.
I am so incredibly bitter.
I feel as bitter as a cup of lemon-lime
or a glass of unrequited love.
And that isn’t what you’ve done to me,
it’s just who you are,
as opposed to who I want you to be,
and it’s really my expectation of you
that have given me all this pain,
as well as the fact that
you haven’t lived up to them.
And it’s the expectations of myself
that everyone has
that I haven’t lived up to
that have contributed to that as well. But,
I don’t regret it
I can’t regret it
it is something that I am
I won’t apologise for it,
except to say that
I am sorry for any pain or
shock my insanity has caused you.
That’s really all that I can say.
I’m just waiting to find out
what this has all been for.
I won’t see you for three months.
I wonder how I’ll survive.
I haven’t seen you for five days and
I’m smothering myself with
pain and bitterness and loneliness.
Who knows if I’ll be here
when you get back.
They better appreciate you, and
you better have the best time imaginable.
And can I say that I don’t hope that
just so that this pain is
'worth my while'?
I actually want every moment of your life
to be exquisite.
It’s funny because,
that’s why I’m putting this off:
So, go to Europe,
and love it as much as
I love you.
And try to not forget me the way
I forget my senses whenever you’re around
(and whenever you’re not around and I’m thinking of you which is all the rest of the time).
And keep as safe as
this secret is safe within me.
And come back soon, the same way
thoughts of you are always returning to me.
I would never smile again
if you never smiled at me again.
I’ll see this as preparation
for the separation we face
once I tell you the truth.
The truth can set you free,
but not always.
Sometimes the truth can scare you,
more than anything.
I would like to be able to write some brilliant confessional
that I could spend the rest of my days being proud of,
Mostly because I would know that I could write more,
and not because of granted complaisance.
And, yes, I know that complaisance is never granted.
But it’s hard to love you, you see,
and so these words are here to make it a little easier.
And I’m not saying that you have anything to do with that difficulty.
It’s really more my fault than yours,
even though it isn’t really my fault at all.
It’s really more God’s fault than anyone’s.
And, yes, I know that God can never be faulted.
I just didn’t want falling in love to turn out this way
and I’m angry at the fact that it did.
But I’m not angry because this moment that is supposedly some contributor to my coming of age has turned out badly;
I’m angry because we have turned out badly,
and because I will never get to hold you or kiss you
or hear you tell me that you love me.
I don’t even get to hold your hand, and I think that
it’s ridiculous that my sex has anything to do with that.
I spend a lot of time saying ‘I’ and beginning all of my sentences that way,
but it’s not because I love myself or anything like that.
That love has been all spent up on you,
and before you it just laid dormant because it wasn’t there then either to be honest.
I think it’s because my experiences are the only ones that I know how to write about,
and I don’t want this one ability or passion or love or habit to be ruined.
And I wish that I had more life experience.
And I wish that I had someone to talk to about this.
I wish that I had a friend who wouldn’t judge me and doesn’t know you
and who I could trust not to say anything to anyone ever.
And I mean a person who I can talk to face to face.
And I guess deep down I wish that I could talk to you and tell you how I feel,
and I suppose that in a lot of ways I probably could.
But it would end everything for me,
because I’m pretty sure it would end my friendship with you.
And who’s going to support the weird bisexual girl
who can’t choose between men and women and who we can’t trust in the change rooms?
But what would you do if I told you ‘hey I think I love you’ to your face?
Instead of in my head all of the time?
I guess it’s condemning of you for me to assume that you would hate me for it,
but I don’t have the arrogance to presume that you should care for me afterwards,
if you ever did beforehand.
I just need to stop falling in love with people who will never love me back.
you are so beautiful
oh my goodness
you are just so beautiful
and I want to tell you
that you are so
so beautiful and
I will never forget it
and I will never change
I have so many regrets, and I’m still young.
In fact, I’m too young to have this many regrets.
And so I don’t want to do anything to cause me to have any more,
for a long time - hopefully the rest of my life.
I have reached a crossroads in my life for a lot of things,
and I know that at every turn one of those roads will bring me regrets,
because I’m me and I’m the sort of person who keeps screwing up.
I just don’t know which road to take sometimes, I guess.
I just can’t believe that no one has seen the signs yet.
At least I know that I’m not obvious;
I’m not an ‘open book’ as they say.
I have so much to say but no courage and no confidence to say it with.
And so I’ll go back to dreaming and singing and writing
and watching and waiting until the coast is clear,
which is a time that may never come.
It occured to me that listening to all of this
sad music only exacerbates my sadness,
and makes it exist where it doesn’t need to.
But then I think that when I feel sad when I hear the music,
I’m not feeling something that comes from nowhere, what
I’m feeling is what I have to keep hidden all the time now.
It’s more that I recognise my pain within the music and I get to
feel it instead of ignoring it like I usually have to. I am so sick
of having to repress my emotions and keep quiet about this.
Sometimes I just want to shout about it from the rooftops, but instead
I just have to settle for laying in bed listening to beautiful music, trying
to get to sleep, and waking up in the middle of the night for no reason.
My love bleeds black blood. It is real, and I know that it’s real,
so why do I keep telling myself that it isn’t? Is it because I am
afraid of it being real? But I know that I’m fine with it existing.
And I tell myself that, but I’d be more comfortable with it
if it was returned by you. But it isn’t possible to pyscho-
analyse yourself, and I can’t pay for anyone else to do it.
You’re one of the only people who I can
have an intelligent conversation with, but
then whenever I’m around you I can’t think.
What’s inside this bottle that I hold in my hands, it goes
out of date on her birthday. I know it sounds mad, but I
have to struggle not to equate significance to this fact.
I’m afraid of the silences that may or may not follow the words
that I speak, if I go ahead with this. It’s because I know people
will see different meanings in my words if I do than they do now.
We were talking about hidden love, and I looked right into her eyes, and
she looked right into mine. And I have no idea what she was thinking but
I have obviously subconsciously married it to an immense significance.
And so if we’re all just bricks in the wall, then I think that it’s
time to make a hole in it. So I’ll push myself out, and let the
light in, through where and how I used to be before I escaped.
And I just wish that I had more to say, and that this
waste of space could be filled up even more than it
has been already. Why this amalgamation anyway?
So I’m sorry that I lack imagination, but I’ve
been spending my time focusing on some
other things for a while. I love you, that’s all.
I experienced foolish hope when I first loved you,
and then it turned to angst and anger
when I first realised that we are not meant to be.
And now all I know is such extreme sadness,
that I cannot help but embrace a numbness
that is necessary for me to cope in this depth of despair.
I’m sorry that I love you and you don’t love me,
and I know that it isn’t your fault, the same way
that I know that it isn’t mine either. I can’t control
the fact that I find you more beautiful than anyone
else that I have ever met, and I see your luminescence
and your goodness surrounding you in halogen.
And I don’t blame you for your feelings and your
disposition. I still have my halcyon dreams and
I still love you, regardless of what you do or what you are.
It will never be, and I know that now, but there is a hope,
that same foolish hope that I knew when first I loved you,
that will last until my dying days, that tell me that there
is still a chance that I will have you to hold and love.
And that, I cannot seem to ever let go of.
I think it’s true to say that there are good times and bad times,
and I’m fortunate enough to say that I feel like at the moment
I’m in a period that I consider to be one of those good times.
And it’s not because anything particularly out of the ordinary has happened.
To everyone else around me, I’m sure it seems like nothing’s changed.
But she hasn’t yelled at me as much lately as she sometimes tends to,
and I got a good result, which I wasn’t expecting,
and I tried something new that I think I’ll try again some time,
and I’ve started something that’s good for my soul
and hopefully left behind something else that’s bad for it,
but most importantly, you smiled at me in a way
that I’ve never seen you smile at me before,
and you ask me things when you needn’t
and I think that it means that you really do care,
and I know that what I want is crazy and impossible,
but at the moment it doesn’t seem so unattainable,
and I suppose that that is something particularly out of the ordinary,
and though I know that it will never become mundane,
I hope it becomes a lot more frequent,
and that your love for me grows into existence.
You have given me so much hope,
and I thank you for that,
for it has meant a lot of joy
that I might never have experienced otherwise.
And then the come down is painful.
And I feel like I will be eternally immersed in it all.
But when I get down I don’t stay down with you around.
I always have a reason to restore myself to simple sanity
because of your presence in my life.
So I thank you for the joyful moments
like the one I know right now,
and I hope that someday
we find a way to make them last forever
for both you and I.
The irrationality of my thinking is staggering,
and, of course, it is important to be rational.
I do, however, find it hard not to feel pain
when you haven’t messaged me for over a week
and I’ve been expecting to hear your words
and see you smile with your teeth,
and know that I am safe and secure in your love,
even if it is only platonic (for now).
But then when you send me a couple of lines,
and it took me sending you some for you to do so,
and they’re simple but they seem affectionate,
and I know that affection doesn’t have to be complicated;
suddenly my peace of mind returns to me
and not only that, but I feel like an abandoned soul
on a secluded, desert island in the middle of the pacific,
or a lonely old man making his bed under a bridge,
hearing a human voice for the first time in years,
call out my name. I will probably never stop
becoming a fool each and every time love enters my life,
although, I haven’t had much experience with it before,
so its not necessarily possible for me to know.
But I’m sure that next week will be a good week,
just for the fact that I know you will deign to spend
a few hours of your time with me,
and I with you. And I will be in your presence,
and I will touch your arm, or your leg,
or maybe even your face. And even if
I never get the chance to touch your lips,
it will be better than any other feeling I’ve had
all winter long. I can promise you that.
I can’t, however, promise to be a rational human being,
but I’ve never really liked fractions and equations anyway,
and I’m sure you’d feel the same, if you fell in love
the same way that I have found that I fall in love:
with people, not with ‘men or ‘women’.
I’m angry but I could never be angry at you,
because I love you too much for that.
And you’ve hurt me and again it’s the same
that I could never be angry at you for that.
I wonder why, when I tell you that I miss you,
you give me only silence. That’s not a fair trade.
But then again, nothing has been between you
and I. And I don’t say that just because I am
in love with you and you are indifferent to me.
Not at all.
I say this because you have given me
the opportunity to know you, in all of your goodness
and kindness and humility and beauty and grace
and wisdom. But I’m afraid that you having me
is far less satisfactory, in my sin and selfishness
and arrogance and ugliness and stubbornness
and idiocy. I don’t have as much to give to you,
but at least I am willing to give it all to you
and I wish that you would give it to me too.
I don’t qualify as eligible for your affection
and so I might as well give up.
But I am impertinent and stubborn
and this is too important to me
to just be let go of. I will maintain a steady grip
on my love for you, and when it finally comes time
for me to let you know, only then will I decide
whether or not you have any definite feelings for me.
When I tell you,
I will never forget the expression
that will form upon your face.
And what I fear is that it will be
a look of horror and fear
and that when I tell you,
I will never forget the expression
that will form upon your face.