Dear, My love is pure and bottomless. In all my wanting to serve and love you, I was killing myself. I slit my throat with daggers you threw at me. I heard that when you love someone so much, them hating you doesn't make you hate them, you hate yourself. I hated myself, really hated myself. I know that isn't fair to me though. My love is pure and bottomless. I don't deserve that. Sincerely,
Context
This passion project of mine started off as a curiosity about blogging. I wanted to see my potential when it came to writing. What started off as something I did once every couple of weeks has become close to a daily routine. I've been writing on my blog for a couple of years now, and I love it. The whole concept of my blog was to just write anything and everything I was interested in. For the most part, that stayed the same, but I shifted in some ways to talking more about how I felt with certain things, constructs, and people. My blog morphed into this thing that adds a level of functionality, and quiet to my life. I'm grateful that I have this outlet, especially since I struggle a lot with everyday nuance of life, expectations, and relationships. I enjoy the time I have to think and to really absorb it all.
If you happen to be reading this, I hope that, in some ways, you find solace in the fact that we might be sharing the same sort walk of life right now. I want to extend the promise I give myself to you, 'everything will be okay.'
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Sound advice
How can someone expect you to treat others with kindness if you can't treat yourself with kindness?
Blurbs of Indication
I look at you unapologetically. I say outlandish blurbs of indication. I give gifts right from the heart. I laugh at your soliloquies. When you went in for a hug, I almost gave in discomfort. I wish I had raised the white flag. I don't know much, but I do know one thing. I want things to work out.
Vincent van Gogh
Skeleton with a cigarette. We talk with no regret. My heart beats fast in a fishbowl. Yours evident from bone to bone. You bring joy from unexpected places. From texts to peculiar faces. I took a smoke to make some time. To wonder whether your question was benign. I go through the same eb and flows. The question of, am I in love? Or is it just the smoke?
The Martyr
I am always apologizing for my feelings. Always giving more than what's good for me. Acts. Always the martyr. Someone who is never at fault and always devout. False. I am forever condemned for knowing and seeing more. Holy, you preyed on that. You are false in every sense. Unfeeling. How could you make me carry it all? How dare you indulge in my love and present me with disdain. You have wronged me. May days be dry and lifeless. May thirst and hunger plague. May the mind run wild, driven to insanity. The soul that never finds peace. Agony. Despair. Guilt. Revelation. Confess your sins. It's always his forgiveness. False.
The story
If you read me, here's the story... left hanging, I was engulfed with rage and fury for those who take my love and leave others empty. I told myself, 'Fine, you don't deserve my voice'. I built an electric fence because I took offence. When I look at you. All I can see is all the hurt you brought to me.
Chinook pushing you away from where I want you to be.
Whenever I see you, I'm called to do more and to be more in order to somehow pique your interest. To make you think that I'm a basket worth all your eggs. When we interact, it just feels so smooth and effortless, and I don't feel drained after conversations. When you speak, I can't help but admire you. I make an effort to listen even when my attention span is less than desirable; the net benefit for me just feels worth it. When you act all goofy, I want to just cover you in my arms. I daydream about how warm you would make me feel. I so deeply want to run my fingers along your hair and just take time to show you my affection. How wonderful would it be to be together? These, of course, are all just unrealistic desires. I know I can't be with you. There's just too great of a chinook pushing you away from where I want you to be. I do, however, appreciate that I can dream.
You can hate me.
My words were strong, powerful, harsh even, but it was from deep within my heart. I'm always just someone you think about when you have to. If you only acknowledge me when we're face-to-face, I would rather not be acknowledged by you at all. There was never a time where you tried to reach out to me, it was always just me who made an effort. It felt exhausting wanting attention from you. The more we spoke, the more you unraveled. I started questioning whether you only keep me around because you like the attention. I spent many days questioning my value to you. The longer the thought marinated in my head, I realize that objectively, we add very little to each other's lives. We make each other happy, but that's not enough in this world. You would be so much better off with people that can build you up, and that works both ways.
Deprived.
I'm feeling starved. It's affecting me, but I rationalize that it isn't. I don't know.
The Narcissist
Hindsight, what horrible person that was. I was so overwhelmed by the disapproval that I let this person chip away at my sense of self-worth. I don't care if you hate me or is disapproving of me. I don't see much value in your person either. I was a fool for thinking your opinions of me carried more weight than my opinions of you. You were despicable. All that pain you caused me, I wish for you to feel it all. All those looks of despise and those loud booming moments of silence, feel it all. That persistent feeling of questioning your sanity, feel all of that as well. I think maybe the reason why it's hard for me hate people is I was making room for people who really deserve it. I think you deserve it. A slow agonizing burn. I often imagine how you probably felt powerful emotionally abusing me; stonewalling me. I fell into it because of hope. A bait you meticulously placed in the trap made of your narcissism. People say that, time will heal, time will make you forget. Maybe
It's easier for me to assume the worst. The picture is, I am unkind...and I guess that's okay. I have nothing to prove.