I hate you.
I love you.
I hate that I love you.
The thought of you never really leaves me, but they're always soft thoughts. Old book pages sticking to my shoes. I guess that makes it easier to think about you that way.
There are flutters within me that tell me that I love you.
They make me blush and whisper in my ear all the dreams I'm frightened to tell myself will come true, because something tells me they won't.
They never have. Why now?
They rest on my pillow increasing the dreams that plague my heart as incessantly as sand on wet skin.
They exist infinitely everywhere.
There is no way to be rid of them.
Please,
I beg them.
Leave me be.
I don't wanna be your girl anymore--I just want to see the same look I feel in my eyes when I look at him, James Dean. I want to feel as loved as I love.
Where is this love I exude every moment? I can't see it. I can't touch it. I don't know if it is real or just a mimick of my aching dreaming.
Life goes slow loving sober, they say.
So I try to forget.
You.
Breathing.
Sleeping.
Thinking.
All about you.
Sometimes a dark corner of myself convinces me that I am not in love with you, but then I think, if a heart like mine can write words like this, like the words I've unceasingly written the past month and a half, pouring from my soul--there is no possible way I am not in love even in a small, small way.
Love begins small, I say.
It starts with a flutter because a flame would devour a heart that is too defenseless, too fragile to protect itself. But I'll tell you, if this is the embryonic stage of love for me, I'm almost wet with wanting to see how powerful and penetrating the real love will be for me.
Think about it.
I am in love with a boy that doesn't give a damn about me and I still feel this way.
I laid awake last night staring at my bookshelf, weeping in the dark, and the thought that this moment was like all the songs they sang, all the books they wrote and I was living it without thinking about it. It wasn't a forced precept. It was no idea of romantic heartbreak--it was real.
He hasn't even broken my heart yet, but I know it is coming just as softly and unsurprisingly as a sunrise in the morning. Perhaps it is less cathartic than the sweet curls of light trickling through my transparent curtain, but still. The hammer will be there soon to pound the pounding in my heart with piercing nails and soaked paper cuts, silencing the ticking that was one so prominently inside me.
It's going to happen because no matter how much I try not to care, no matter how much I beat myself up for being awkward and scared and myself, I can't help it.
I wanna dance with you every day.
But then I want to pull away and make you chase me. I say 'make you' because it doesn't seem you'll ever want to chase me. No one ever does. What human really chases anymore? They expect and they accept. I'm done accepting a world that doesn't care. I care. That's enough for me.
If there is one thing I would want and one alone, it would be to be chased and running with excitement in my heart and pleasure in the steps I take knowing you're behind me because you feel the same way.
I hate that I want you.
I want you more than I want warm socks on a rainy day.
Why don't you want me?
My head already has a typed list for me, ready with answers to stamp across my chest. The ink will spill down my white shirt and absorb into my pores, pressing against my heart trying to find room inside there.
But what would you say if I were brave enough to ask you?
Would you break my heart the way it's already breaking?
The seams are cracking with something peaking out between the spaces of thread keeping it temporarily together.
What will you say?
Will you ever love me back?
Is there such thing as a love that gives back to me?
I'm done loving sober when the only love I need, the only one that will make me realize what love really is, is the one two people get being drunk off the idea that love and life and their heart beating together will last forever.
I'm done.
I'm done with skinny love and stark soberness.
-k.p.b
