Manic and Afraid

Tonight, I’m upset with you.

I feel as though you’re haunting me, wherever I go. I am ashamed to even look back my old work, all I see is me manifesting this torturous situation on myself since I was twelve.

I can not kiss anyone else without remembering the way your lips felt on mine. That cocky fucking look in your eyes. The way you crooned: “My girl”, over and over again. A mantra against my skin.

I am so angry I could cry.

I even treasure the way you pinch me, awake. And then get annoyed at me for being shaken; I know my weakness scares you.

It scares me too.

I would like to perform an exorcism to get you out of my mind, I just want it to end. For you to stop playing phantom inside my head.

I would be lying to say I haven’t tried. Ha! I have fled the country in a desperate bid to move on. I’ve buried myself under bodies, under experiences. It is deliriously painful, but it doesn’t hurt to see you with anyone else, no. As I said before, that does not hurt.

What does feel so malignant to me, is your complete lack of regard. Am I that disgusting to you?

I know I am not.

I know I deserve someone who well and truly loves me, but, gosh. They are not you.

Make up your mind, be kind to me or just remove yourself from my life completely. I can’t handle the shreds of hope you so generously pepper me with knowing full well I do not have the need for selfpersevation that would stop me.

Hope springs eternal. C’est la vie.

You bring out the absolute worst in me.

Hurt, angry- fuming.

As much you love and hate to admit it, you are not a God, sir. Though, I’d like to pretend I am: perhaps then I could turn you into a flower or a tree of some sort of be rid of you in my head?

But then I would not be able to benefit from your presence. You see, you also bring out the best in me, because, despite all this I still hold you in the highest regard. All this is simply a manifestation of my headspace. You’ve been a net positive in my life, so far. I can see you being smug over this.

You are a good person, as much as it hurts my non existent pride to admit.

Because you push me to do better, with a word.

A glance.

A smile.

A gesture.

You inspire me to be better, do better. And I know that the rest is simply the human in you. Your own demons, trauma manifesting itself in some awful way that does not involve me. So how can I not love you?

For persevering throughout everything. Admirable, you are despicably, villainously admirable.

Thé you as you are right now? Not mine, never mine. Thé you I love has a mild disregard for me, actually.

But I know that is not true. So bear with me on this one, they tell me this how I should heal. One way forward.

There’s no looking back now.

There never has been with me.

Begrudgingly yours,

Self medicating.

P.S. I’ve attached the offending work with this letter, so you can marvel at the clairvoyant abilities of young me. How naive to be wishing for a hard love.

After Dark

The air sits stagnant between the two of us during the day, as it has since I met him. Whenever I think a breeze might be stirring, just a whisper loose on my lips, the atmosphere goes dry. Living so close to the sea, one may expect a nice coastal wind to frequent our region, but the air is only moist and heavy and not so cool; at the very least, it is now

But when night comes, and the sun sets and takes its warmth with it, the winds lift the water and create the crests on the waves. From his open window just a couple of feet away, we can hear the waves lapping against the rock walls. It is the only sound between us now, the constant reminder that the winds blow only after dark.

The nighttime breeze is gentle, a caress and a kiss, but the quiet daytime air is harsh. That may be why I have always preferred staying up at night and why he stays up with me, but it may also just be in my head. For now, though, I just lie next to him and listen to the sound of the waves, too aware that this will be over in a couple of hours. It always is.

It’s funny. I spent an ungodly amount of time staring at that word, ‘dear’ thinking of ways on how to address you, tonight.

I could have chosen just your name, but considering my regard for you it felt undeserving. I could have gone for ‘Sir’, ‘Mister’ or (my personal favorite) ‘Dumbass’, but it isn’t very appealing. Whatever has come to past, whatever we might have done to each other it does not change how I feel. To me, you are dear.

They tell me I have a flair for the dramatics, that I’m flamboyant and theatrical, and can not for the life of them see how we stand each other. What I don’t tell them, my personal little secret is that you have a penchant for drama too.

You just know how and when to show the many facets of yourself. Like most things, you are calculated in this. So measured in your approach, testing the waters, patient in your own way.

Wary, always on your guard.

I have a few of these observations of you, I hoard them in an effort to solidify the impression you’ve left on me. That’s how I know you’d absolutely love the idea of someone penning a letter for you like this.

Absolutely giddy.

But, I’m afraid this is for my benefit, and mine alone. I have come to the realization that I am disgustingly selfish.

Whatever would you do to me?

This is my bid to document my feelings, my regard for you, as I feel them in the very moment. Before my Illness sweeps them away with a word.

Or a look.

A gesture.

I want you to know, that things will look up for you soon. So, so soon. There’s absolutely no way a person of your countenance or your character can not succeed.

I refuse to believe that it can’t.

You’ve got that mettle in you, and, no it isn’t the stuff of tragedy. The path ahead of you is Herculean, you are more MacBeth than caliban even if you can’t see it.

And, there, is the tragedy. I am not made of the same mettle, I do not have that tough as nails character nor am I nearly half as charismatic. I can not help, then, but be a little jealous to be an Ophelia or a Miranda.

But, I do believe in you. And if you are somehow reading this: I am truly, awfully sorry.

Yours,

Desperately wishing to be a person.