Life’s too short. It’s too short for mediocrity, too short for holding grudges, to short for arbitrary existence. Life’s too short for passion-less romance.

We’re all alone in the end, in the very end. You have to find someone to spend the time with, someone to fill the silences with laughter and shouts and substance. You have to find someone who makes you happy. You’re already complete, you don’t need another half, just a better compliment.

Life’s too short.

So feel me, and touch me, and breathe me in. I am alive, I am a living fire, I am important. You are important. So feel me. Kiss me. But if anything, if we fight, if we bicker, if we anger each other, let us not waste the other’s time.

Love me, or don’t.

Feel me, or leave.

Life’s too short.

We’ve begun to grow up, it seems. Long gone are the days where we both wore our hair to our shoulders, where we smoked cigarettes for the hell of it, and hung out in basements. Long gone are the days we spent in beds, talking and kissing and being. I’m alone beneath the sheets and pillows are too cold. I depend on me for all the warmth I have, and I depend on me for kind words for myself.

My love,

As you’ve grown, your passion has dwindled, it seems. Maybe it’s just changed, and I cannot see it anymore. Maybe it has gone through a similar, hardening metamorphosis, where a dreamer barely exists, if at all, and what is left is a man who is driven by ambition. But only a little passion. It’s fine my love, because I think I can manage to be passionate for the both of us for a little while. I’ll hold the fire in my hands and my mind, even if it burns me, and when you’re ready I’ll give yours back to you. I’ll let my own bed cradle me and hold me, as I know you’re very busy these days and can’t do that very much any more.

My love,

I will wipe my own tears and depend only upon myself, because these things are burdens to you. And if I cannot be a passion I refuse to be a burden.
I will show myself appreciation, and I will show you appreciation and I will show the both of us a haven and some kindness in a very unkind world. I will fill and soothe the gaps that I do not understand, and instead of craters there will be lakes.
I will see myself as who I am, and I will see that I am strong. I will learn self-sufficiency and kindness for me, because today you are not able to supply these.

My love,

I remember the days when you only spoke softly to me and understood who and what I was, my idiosyncrasies, and held compassion for my damages and insecurities. I remember when you were so patient with me, and where I was unafraid and unembarrassed to be. Remember when we just where? When we were wholesome and innocent, and you didn’t play mind games? Remember when psycho-analysis wasn’t a part of our big picture? Do you remember the days when we were happy?

I do.

I miss them.

Happy dreams don’t visit me as I sleep. Instead, I create images of anxiety and worry and sadness. Sometimes, they’re interesting; I feel like I’m opening a book about myself and seeing things about me I hadn’t seen before. Motives become developed, ideas become sleepy solids, pains are revisited and breathe ugly, short lives. I watch myself and others like its all a movie, and I get a chance to remember things I had tried to forget, or forgot to remember.

It’s a way of keeping things alive, though it’s slightly masochistic.

I’m so cold. And my thoughts are grim and my ideas are a little broken today. I want nothing more but to sleep some more, and hopefully conjure up something warm and nice for me. I want to relax and instead I’m just exhausted and I can’t see those gold and silver linings. I don’t know how to treat myself well.

Maybe that is why others don’t know how to treat me well, either.

I know that I am often pathetic.

And that, while you tell me differently, I am not the fairest thing you’ve seen.

And that, my emotions are haywire.

And that, often you cannot be bothered to care.

I know that I should express these whims and these pains and these frustrations.

These are crisscrossed subjects all tangled up like broken necklaces, where I can’t say how I feel because I know the responses.

Leave me alone.

You’ve already left before.

I’m enraged. And I cannot make you care. I cry myself to sleep often, and now I will not tell you not because I don’t want to put pressure on you, but because in the long it doesn’t mean jack shit to you.

It’s gotten to this feeling where I get so angry that I can’t even see straight and then there’s just nothing but numbness and then suddenly I’m sobbing and rocking and choking.

I can’t keep allowing you to shove the blame unto me and take no responsibility for what you say to me and how it makes me feel. Words have meaning, especially yours. And even if you choose the relevancy of what I say, yours will always be potent.

What are you doing to me?

What are you doing?

These are uneasy words to return because they were spoken so easily. Or, rather, communicated. Just sent off, like a little bomb. I don’t like it. They’re words that if I said them, I would mean them.

I do miss you.

But I miss the person that isn’t there. I remember her very well, even if you’ve chosen to erase her, like you’ve done with many of your identities. I do wish that I could pick up the phone and call you, like I’ve done in the past. I wish I could turn to you and seek out your unique insight.

Even this you have thrown away. You’re so angry. I wish I knew what had happened to you. I wish I knew why you were so angry. I wish you had been able to allow me in, as I had done for you. I miss my best friend, and you just aren’t her anymore.

Before I left, I would see fragments of her, quickly covered up with your callous, angry attitude. I know you see this life as a fight, but you had once been such a carefree warrior-one of the best I knew.

I miss you.

But you left.

I write down a lot of things I normally am unable to say to people. It doesn’t really matter, because none of these people read this anyway and maybe that’s better. It’s easier. But, I can’t really say all of these things to all of these people because they would get angry, and say mean things even though the things I write are never really mean, they’re just feelings.

I don’t know how to defend these fragile things from defensive words, because feelings really have no offense, they just are. And they get stabbed and shot at all the time when you don’t even mean them to.

Sometimes I wish I could uncensor myself and say everything I want to say, but my father says that isn’t how you make friends and that certainly isn’t how you keep them. It doesn’t really make do for a completely joyful romance, either, you know. I’d rather stay quiet with my doubt and my uncertainty than spill them all out because I don’t know. Usually, they’re unfounded and I’m just too insecure to handle a lot of things.

This is really sort of pointless, and I should probably get back to writing something substantial, and plan a way to write a story with Neil Gaiman or something.

I took a shower like always, and the water was warm and the steam was nice. My soap is this really soft, sweet smell and it makes my skin clean and smell like figs. But it’s hard for me to tell you about how I smell so sweet because you haven’t been around. At night I curl up really small and sometimes I cry and hold myself with my small arms and my small hands that you like so well. I wrap myself in clean sheets that don’t fight the bone-cold as well as you can, and I just get covered in goosebumps. My hair will stick to my forehead and my eyes get swollen, and if I have makeup leftover it stains things. But it’s hard for me to tell you about the cold and the white-hot-heat because you aren’t around.
I sometimes sickly wonder if I’m often forgotten. I try not to think about it, mostly.

For a small period in my life, an owl sat outside my window and hid behind trees and the dark. He or she sat there for hours during the night and sang out and hooted, and I would always fall asleep to it. It was beautiful, it was comforting and I loved it. My father told me that it was an omen of death, and I laughed. I gave it my own meanings.

It went away and I haven’t heard an owl in so long.

I wish it would come back.

I feel like I’m doing it all wrong. That this isn’t how things should be going for me, and that I’ve failed me. I feel like I’m simply not good enough for so many things. I feel forgettable, irrelevant. I’m so sad, and I often don’t understand why. So, I sit at my computer or on the phone and I just cry.

I wish I could return to that period in life where I didn’t care if I was forgettable. I didn’t feel irrelevant. I was touched and held and comforted and I felt like life was this big moving river, where you kept moving and everyone could choose to move with you. Now I keep getting these big rocks in my throat and ruining my makeup and choking on all of these tears. It’s all so stagnant.

Maybe this is another part of growing up that I, unlike many, have to express because I’m so confused. I’ve been so disillusioned in such a short span of weeks that I wish my beautiful mother hadnt told me that I could do and have and be whatever I wanted if I tried hard enough.

Life isn’t working that way, or I don’t know how to make it work for me.

I just want you to hold and touch me.