After practically six months of slacking, I’ve managed to post consecutively for two weeks. Still, it’s nothing to me. Sure, I write about love and hate and sadness. But. It’s still not from the heart. Not that for one second, was I short on material. I’ve had plenty to write about. I just had a hard time translating the feelings in my heart into words on a blog. I’ve been too careful. Too afraid. Too ashamed. Too strategic. But tonight, I’ll come clean. Tonight at 1:58am with a heavy heart and exhausted mind, I’ll write. I’ll write about you, and all the promises I break about promising to tell you how I feel. As if you didn’t know already.
I’ll write about how I thought I would be able to take this for what it is. About how I wish I had listened to my horoscope and walked away in March. About how I wish you would let me in. About all the things that hurt me when I’m with you. The things you are unaware of, but I never mention because I know I can’t change you. Nor would I want to. I’ll write about how amazing we would be together. How you hold yourself back, so in return I do the same. I’ll write about how I want to make you breakfast in the morning. A real breakfast. About how much I enjoy playing chess with you, even though you beat me everytime. About how I want to buy you curtains for your bedroom, because the sun is way too fucking bright in the morning (although I’d buy you curtains for your living room first, because that’s what everyone sees anyway).
I’ll write about how you’ll never look at me the way I want you to – the way you would want to look at a girl. About how I want to punch your ex-girlfriend dead in the throat for turning you into this. About how I wish you would go to therapy. Like me. I’ll write about how you’re not usually what I want, but what I need. About how you take care of me, even if you don’t think you do. Like the time you gave my drunk ass water in a water bottle, because I “couldn’t be trusted with glass”. I’ll write about the concert tickets I bought you for your birthday. And how shocked you were when you discovered them on your table. And about how happy I was that you liked it. Then, how disappointed I was that you made up an excuse not to go anymore.
I’ll write about how much things have changed. How the kisses and cuddles and sniffs have ceased. How you no longer hold my hand in the movie theater. Or text me about stupid shit. About how I just broke down and started crying when I wrote that. We used to talk all day. About how stupid I feel for investing in someone that could care less about what I do with my day. About how perplexed I am, as to why I stay knowing it will never be more than what it is now. About how you won’t even try to try, and how it’s my fault. Because I’m not funny enough. Exciting enough. Smart enough. Pretty enough. I don’t ride your dick good enough. About how I’m just not enough. About how I’ve seen you every week for the past 26 weeks, yet have no idea what you love or care about.
I’ll write about all the things I could never tell you, because once you’re in front of me I don’t want to ruin the moment. I’ll write about how absolutely beautiful I think you are: scars, flaws, issues and all. But you don’t care. About how if I could, and you let me, and you wanted me to, I would break every brick of that wall around your heart. Even if all I had was a hammer. And about how you would need to do the opposite for me, and help me repair the damage that’s been done to mine.