My thoughts are my only companions

poetry is difficult my dudes

So maybe I just don’t like men. Maybe I’m not bi after all.

I don’t feel the need to justify my existence to you.

My perfect fantasy is having a wife, and living with her in a sleepy suburban neighborhood, close enough to a city that we could visit on the weekends and close enough to the forrests that we could foster a shared love of hiking. And we would live in a modest but comfortable loft, with too many succulents and beautiful windows that make it hard to sleep in, and a couple of cats and maybe a snake or two. We would drink coffee from handmade mugs and mint water from mason jars and eat lemons raw from farmers markets. And I would be a barista at a small coffee shop that caters to hipsters and slam poets, and try to sell my writing to journals and maybe one day publish a novel. And my wife would also work a job she loved, and it wouldn’t matter if we weren’t making as much money as we could be, so long as we had enough to life together. Above it all, though, we would be in love, and we would be content in our love, and the hazards of the world would not stop us from loving each other in all the ways we could.

It’s a new kind of terrifying, to realize that the story I’m writing might actually have potential. That it feels unique and structured and real enough to someday be a legitimate novel. And it’s so scary, to want that. To feel like I’m writing a draft for other people to read and not just myself. I’ve been writing for seven years now, and I always give up. Always realize that there isn’t enough depth to give my newest idea that traction it needs to reach its goals. And hell, there’s no guarantee that this goes anywhere either. But it feels like maybe it could. And that’s so fucking terrifying. To want this to work. Because now there are stakes if it doesn’t. And I don’t know what to do with that information. With this newfound want. I’m so scared and so excited, and all I want to do is keep writing and see where it goes.

I think I’m finally at a place where I feel at peace letting go of my exes. Like I don’t want to keep dragging out my emotions and feelings toward them. Whether they are or are not in my life, that’s okay. I deeply love my ex that is still my best friend, and I’m settled in being best friends with him, instead of constantly wondering if we were ever going to try things out again. And the ex that hurt me bad on his way out, well I finally feel comfortable accepting that he is out of my life. I don’t feel quite so reckless anymore. I don’t feel the need to fall into flings and disregard any chance of a relationship. I’m settled into who I am, a little bit more. Or, at the very least, I am more settled with what each of my exes do and don’t mean to me and where I am presently. I don’t think I want to really get into any more flings at the moment. Even when I am lonely. And maybe that will change, and maybe I’ll fall down and make mistakes again. Almost certainly all those things will happen. But for now I am taking a certain comfort in finally feeling able to let ago of all the emotional weight I’ve been carrying. I don’t feel the need to agonize where I’ve gone wrong, or where they went wrong, or the specific ways we were good and bad for each other. It’s very freeing, more so than I think I would’ve expected. Hopefully I can work on bring this growth and health and self awareness into other parts of my life. I could certainly use it.

God fucking damnit I don’t know what to do. If I should message you or not. My stomach feels fucking sick either way, and I have a midterm tomorrow and I need to sleep but now I can’t sleep and I don’t know what to fucking do. I don’t want to reopen a line of communication with you. I don’t want to talk to you again. But I also don’t want to not say anything when this tornado could’ve hurt your friends and family. I’ve met some of them, and I some how for some fucking reason still have a shrivel of care for you. And I feel almost obligated to reach out and see if you and your friends and family are doing okay. Even knowing that they’re probably fine. But I really really really don’t want to talk to you again. So now I’m lost and confused and sick to my stomach and shaking and I really need to sleep so I can study in the morning but I don’t think sleep is happening anytime soon. Goddamn it all. I swear I’m losing my mind.

New year, new school, new country, new continent. And yet my brain falls into the same rut regardless. I guess changing your surroundings doesn’t change you, but I was really hoping it would. I’m sick of myself, and I just want to figure out how to improve without constantly falling down in exactly the same way every time. I see a red winter coat and I think of the same person, even if he’s thousands of miles away. I listen to a certain song and immediately feel like I’m eighteen in a house that’s across the neighborhood from mine, drinking cranberry juice and vodka. I still oversleep, still procrastinate, still don’t work out as much or eat as well as I should. I don’t know, I guess I still think that I have more willpower than I really do, that this time I will break years of habits and routines and character flaws. Maybe one day. Even if it doesn’t feel like it will happen today. In any case, I’m just happy I’m allowed to break and bend and reshape and burn all on my own for a little while. No one here knows enough about me to know if anything’s wrong, and that’s strangely freeing. Although admittedly quite lonely. A con for every pro, I suppose.

God, I care about you. So fucking much. How many years has it been? And yet I see you close to tears and suddenly so am I. You’re one of my best friends and an ex and sometimes my feelings get so tangled up into each other that I can’t untangle them. I can untangle you. I’ve tried pushing you away, I’ve tried pulling you closer. I’ve tried not caring, and it never works. And I’m so fucking heartbroken for you right now. I didn’t even cry for Matt, and here I am crying for you four years after we broke up, three years after we left for college, two after things ended. I don’t believe in fate or soul mates, but I can’t get you out of my life. We’re just friends and yet. We’re not just. And I don’t know if anything will ever happen again, but so know that you are one of the people I care most deeply about. And I don’t know what to do with that.

Life hack: If you start crying in class when your teacher asks if you’re okay, she’ll force an extension on you and give you a hug because she’s immensely concerned about how much pressure you’re under.

So I guess I’m not a terribly happy person right now. I just wish I could pinpoint a reason why. Is it loneliness or fear of failure or anxiety or imposter syndrome or or or? What, exactly, is making me miserable this time? Why did I spend my entire weekend and all day today doing nothing? Screaming internally at myself to be productive and then just falling into the same trap of procrastination and avoidance. I wish I could understand myself. Understand what makes me tick, why I’m suddenly sad or unmotivated or miserable or frustrated. Where these moods are coming from. I don’t even want to sleep right now but I know I have class in eight hours and should really go to bed.

As nice as the first two nights of this break were, I’m beginning to think I’ve done a bad thing in spending them with you. Not because you were bad, no you were great. Wholesome and sweet and so very different from the person I’ve left behind in so many ways. But because you’re good and wholesome and sweet and those are things that I cannot be right now. I’m rough and battered and weary to my bones and I can’t muster up the sunshine that you seem to exude so effortlessly. You care so much and originally that’s my position so I don’t quite know how to process the way these tables have turned. But I leave in 2 month and emotionally I’m already checked out and as much as you seemed okay with nothing serious I can tell that’s not what you actually want. I’m going to hurt you and I don’t want to because you are sweet and kind and caring and deserving of so much. Of more than me, frankly. I am too strange and too odd and too fucked up for the tenderness you want. And as sweet as spending the night with you was, I can’t be yours right now. I don’t think I can be anyone’s quite yet. And I would hate to try something with you only for it to end being a rebound. I don’t want to hurt you. I really really don’t. But I don’t think that being with you is a good idea either. I hurt and am still hurting, and my edges aren’t sanded down enough to be with someone without drawing blood. I’m sorry.