sometimes

sometimes letters are written before bed and then tucked away to be revealed at a later time. sometimes letters never make it to their destination. sometimes letters need to be written so that sleeping can occur.

Because I have a hard time expressing certain stuff in real time,

(it just comes out messy and wrong)

I'm hoping to do a better job at writing it out.  

I wish I could accurately convey how much you mean to me. It's a lot. 

If I could have it my way, we'd be living together, married, and dealing with stuff like whether or not we should get a dog-friend for Carson or if we should vacation in Spain or Patagonia. 

I wish you had your own shop and your own business, making bicycles and any other things that require really precise geometry. I wish you had a very nice minimalist designed shelf to display your calipers. I wish we both had really fulfilling projects that kept us busy, and after a long day of thinking and making and dreaming we got together with our respective sipping drinks to eat dinner under the stars (on warm nights...okay cool nights too, I'll grab a sweater). 

I think that you're going to get what you want out of life. You are so impressively ahead of the curve in so many ways. 

And I'm worried that you're not ready for the things that I want. (Understandably so.) I'm worried that when you are ready for these things, you'll be ready to have them with someone who's not me. 

Sometimes I feel like a milestone, a point to experience, savor, and then cross. 

This makes me profoundly sad and I wish it weren't true. 

I wish I could send this to you right now, but I'm terrified. 

It's [insert date here] and we just got off of the phone after a trying conversation. It's [insert date here] and once again, hard times...

You are sad, tired, exhausted, and I'm trying my best to be good for you. Someone you can rely on, someone who makes you feel less alone, someone you want to hug and kiss. I don't want to make it worse. I want to make it better. 

I'm paralyzed by worry.

I worry so much about us that I think it's unhealthy. 

I remind myself that life is precious and that we're only on this planet for just a tiny bit of time. Why I don't make the most of it is beyond my comprehension. 

You're right, people should not get stuck in the past, and I like to believe a constructive reflection of it is a-okay.

I would say a bigger problem for me right now is I'm stuck in the future. A future hope that things will get better for us, that we'll stay together, that we're going to grow. 

The present feels precarious and small and wrought with so much uncertainty, frustration, sadness, and stress that the future I'm clinging to seems more and more nebulous. 

I thought I learned to never be attached to an outcome, but here I am obsessing over a future we might not ever have. My heart refuses to accept this despite my brain nervously assessing all possible escape routes waiting for the whole of our everything to catch fire and burn to the ground.

So there you have it- the 10,000 humming birds building a nest between my ears causing a racket, making me terribly clumsy, and easily agitated. Nervous, deranged, full of lamentations, and sad sad songs. 

Edited 

3/31/16 1:44 am 

Edited 

4/12/16 2:42 am

Edited

6/15/16 8:38 am

it me, thirstybitch420

I cry at least three times a day. We're lucky we didn't have smart phones. Could have, but we didn't. Hey, you're my sad friend. I hope it's okay that you've been friend zoned. It would be weird if I still wanted you romantically. It's not even that anymore. It's nothing. It's emptiness. It's a paper cup with the bottom falling out. My wine's about to get on everything. Stain my jacket on a crowded dance floor in a soulless chocolate factory. I am older. I am broken. I am a giant vessel of tears. For the last four hours I've been saying I'm going to take a walk before the sun sets. My pedometer has been clipped to my waist since this morning. The room has grown dark. I wish I loved myself more so I didn't need to fall apart on others. We had a good amount of eye time together. We had that. We never sat next to each other staring at our phones, a million miles apart.

I know it's easy to romanticize the past. This is not lost on me.

Remember

Remember when I sent you a photo of the inside of my mom's fridge and wrote "what should I eat?" and you texted back "the butter, eat the butter"?  That was funny.  My mom's fridge is always so empty. 

A bitch ain't one.

When your death was fresh I had a dream about you. You came to me and said your death was an accident and that it wasn't my fault. That dream kept me sane for a pretty long time but now here I am with a new partner and a whole new set of problems and I wonder if that dream was just my way of convincing myself that I'm not a monster capable of driving people mad. Maybe it wasn't really you who visited me but rather the activation of some sort of built-in coping mechanism. Its sole function to momentarily distract me from my dangerous human flaws so I could go on with my life despite your very tragic death.

Then I think about what the police officer said to me.
How when they found you, you had the name tag I wore to work around your neck.
That's how they identified you, with my name around your neck.
Good Lord might as well have been my hands at that point.

Here's the thing. The minute I start to believe that our fights caused you to do something as incredibly careless as walk on the Brooklyn Queens Expressway in the middle of the night, a rage fills inside me. How dare you leave me with enough guilt to last a life time? What the hell were you thinking? No pussy is worth that kind of pain. Jay-Z had 99 problems... If I were so insufferable you should have kicked my ass to the curb. We'd all be better for it. Instead any person who has any remote interest in being with me now has to deal with the indelible mark you left and that really really sucks.

My art work is about you. My blog is about you. My thoughts are about you. YOU YOU YOU.

I loved you. I really did. I LOVED YOU SO FUCKING MUCH.

And I still love you but obviously in a different way now.

A part of me believes you didn't have to die- unless you wanted to... but if that's the case you should have left me a letter. This suspended place of never knowing what you were thinking is my cross to bear.

I've got 99 problems, plus one more.

The Sweetest Boy

Is not you.

The sweetest boy does not know me.
Has not met me.
Seen me. Touched me.

The sweetest boy is still safe.
He is making sailboats out of trash and dreaming
the sweetest sweetest boy dreams.

The sweetest boy
is not you
but was you
at some point
before me. 

Sometimes I'm just a bag of dicks.

I'm so sad right now. I don't feel like I can hold onto anything meaningful. Everything is failing. I thought I had reached a point in my maturity where I owned up to my shortcomings, but I was wrong. Attention! News flash: I still would like to blame my father for making me the fuck up that I am today. Congratulations dad. Ah sigh sigh sigh! I can't handle how bitter I am.

I'm probably never going to ever be satisfied. I'm probably never going to steer myself towards my truest desires. I don't even know what they are anymore.

I was such a freaky kid. What happened?

I'm not even Catholic and I have so much guilt. I hate feeling sorry for myself. There's so much fucking horrifying bullshit happening in this world and here I am sucking my thumb, masturbating my tiny dick of an ego. Poor me. I've got it sooooo tough.