i know i should not have fallen in love with you. we will never be together and that your heart belongs to someone else.
but what am i suppose to do when words are stuck in the back of my throat every time you smile at me? what am i suppose to do when my breathing stops whenever you lean in close to me? what am i suppose to do when i feel lightheaded every time you say my name?
and the worst part is that you dont even like girls. you hold so much power over me without even knowing it.
can i eat enough words to be a weight you want to carry;
i torch my hair to resemble the women in your town but the scent is too sweet to be gasoline, tears, a tremor; there’s no map to my heart.
my mother calls me to ask about the rain, i count my toes and tell her i haven’t felt hurt in a while. there’s nothing left beneath the aching.
if you spray hair lacquer into the light in my hands will you forget about the scars the water left around my ankles when i become a cloud of fire; do you think the brand marks you leave on my neck tell others to go when i don’t want to be alone and what good of us if we’re both lonely.
you know i’m not missing in the parts of my body you’d like to bury yourself in.
you know i am too full to be your empty.
i wake with a mouth full of sand and a gas station receipt: schnaps for 3 and a half bubblegum dreams sticking to your sneaker, and it says i paid for your cigarettes. poor you.
I don’t mean to write you a bullshit letter, but I did. Since you sent hundreds letters by my doorstep and I haven’t responded any of those, so here we go.
I’m definitely not good at this, you know that. I left you not because you’re not good enough. I’m just afraid that you’ll do it first. So I took a step away, from you, from your life. I’m still trying to understand what’s wrong with me. I’m still trying to define what I feel, and what I want. And I’m not good at saying sorry, so I’ll just write it down.
The thing is, I hate you. I hate you being you. I hate your snobbish pompous way. I hate your solicitude. I hate your taste of musics. I hate your books. I hate your stories. I hate your writings. I hate your letters. Even I hate your smile and I hate the look in your eyes. I don’t like the way you show your affection on me. So please, I don’t want you to stay. I don’t want you to come back again.
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I looked through old photographs – ones that you will never see because I’d have deleted them by then, hopefully next week. They may be gone but I can’t promise that I won’t try to recreate some with you. Not because I’m trying to compare you to him, not at all, I’m erasing the past. A spring cleaning of sorts; I want to fill everything up with you, including the past.
The ghost of a smile greeted my features, as the picture of my first hickeys came on screen, then the ring on my finger, and many more pictures I would rather not say. Nostalgia settled like a silken scarf over my throat – soft and so unlike the knife it once was. It did not choke me, it only laid there, pretty as the pink scars on my thighs.
But you’ll soon know these scars aren’t pink, some day for the need to romanticize myself I will tell you these thickened razor marks resemble the color of your eyes so much, a deep tea color, and you’ll wonder if you reminded me of those tumultuous times – the ship tossed woman I was, the good girl who gave in, and gave in, and it will scare you to think that maybe I have folded in to you too.
But that is not what I mean. See, I’m terrible at loving. I’m a shitty poet when it comes to you. What I meant was, your eyes tell me that healing doesn’t always come in the color of spring. Healing leaves stains, and not all pretty by the world’s standards.
Sweetheart, what I’m saying is, I am stained ugly from head to toe.
There is watermelon red down my back, green fingertips dot my ribs and breast, Mars is dying at the base of my throat, and a brimstone moth has settled across my face. Can you look at me without cringing?
I don’t care anymore, today was the day I finally let go.
I am still falling like maple leaves, but for the first time,
i can’t imagine who you are, or what shape you would take in my life. what kind of space you would occupy. people tell me one thing, myself another — i don’t trust any of it. i am always my own empire. i hope you will be, too. because when we meet, we’ll go to war. this is not two armies, clashing against one another, but two wills, two worlds. colliding, crashing mid-air. our love will be a plane crash. our love will be shapeless, like water, surviving against all odds, following the shape of its container. our love will be blood, the way a star blooms when it dies. and i wouldn’t have it any other way. i hope you, too, feel the same. but it will also be this: infinite tenderness, afternoon light, the rustle of a familiar book after midnight. your favourite song on the radio, long drives with friends, walks on the beach. we’ll keep each other wild, and we’ll keep each other safe. we’ll build a home in each other’s bones & call it by name.
Here are some things to look forward to: hearing her whisper “I love you” and having the world not seem quite so bad anymore; hearing her laugh, sweet as honey, and knowing that this is what it means to finally be home; holding her close as she’s falling asleep to the sound of your trainwreck heartbeat, then kissing her forehead with a smile on your lips.
They will vilify you. The lover you left. Their friends that you laughed with on so many drunken late nights, the family that gave you hugs and said how happy they were that your other half had found you. They will all become ghosts but it’s you that will have to suffer through a prolonged death. It will eat you alive like cancer and when you think you’re in remission the doctor will call you in to their office to talk. And that’s perfectly fine. There will always be some way for someone to turn it into your fault, something you did, or something you didn’t do enough of. Hell, it could be your fault. That’s also totally fine. Because it doesn’t really matter who left whom or why or how a thousand different moments could have gone supernova into a different reality. You feel like you’re on fire from the inside out and the only thing worse than that pain is the numbness that follows once it’s burnt everything out of you. You do not have to justify yourself. Not to a single goddamn soul. You will want to explain. You will want people to understand. You will become angry at how they can’t wrap their head around what it was like, and why some of them still believe the lies they are fed by other people. Darling, this is a bad dream and you have just as good of a chance as accurately depicting every nuanced detail of a nightmare you had years ago as you will convincing someone of emotions they haven’t felt, words they haven’t heard. You just can’t. What you can do is take solace in the people who shake their head and go “Damn I can’t even imagine.” and hug you, saying that they are happy you have a chance to find something better. Your best friends won’t get everything, but they get you back, and their enthusiasm will show. So take that first step. Or jump off a waterfall. Focus on your career or road trip for a month. Go to the bar you never thought you’d end up in and learn a line dance. Take French lessons. At this point, you get the picture right? Do whatever the FUCK you WANT to. Because you not having to justify why it ended, doesn’t end there. You don’t owe anybody an explanation. If you have enough love in you for just one night, and you want to share it just to prove you still can, do it. Approach the stranger. Flirt awkwardly. Kiss them just because you want to. Be reminded of what it feels like to have someone pull your shirt over your head for the first time. You are not being a slut, you are not a whore, you should not be ashamed. You got what you wanted and damn, it felt good didn’t it? If you want to save up the drops of love that find their way back into your well, do it. Go out with your friends. Date yourself. Go to a fancy restaurant in heels and a journal and write about how weird the people are around you. Rebuff advances, finish your degree, spend time with your family and strong women that you admire. Once you have enough love stored up for YOURSELF, it will overflow and there will be someone not too far away who can’t wait to mix their water with yours and drown in it with you. Cry. For god’s sake cry, that is not weakness, that is being emotionally alive and to suppress it kills part of your beauty. If you can’t cry but you want to, put on some sad music, look through old photos, read old exchanges. Let the salt carry those last microscopic pieces of the pain out. If you want to do any mixture of any of those things or a million others, do it. Because you are an ever changing masterpiece and should never apologize for not turning to stone. You will change scenes, colors, styles. You will be a blank canvas some days and guess what. That’s completely fine. Because the people who matter the most won’t give a shit about what form you are in. They’ll carry a frame around and look at you through it because they will realize you are a work of art too exquisite to be confined and hung on a wall. You are life. Go live.
“But, O Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they loved, I shall always be near you; in the gladdest days and in the darkest nights … always, always, and if there be a soft breeze upon your cheek, it shall be my breath, as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit passing by. Sarah do not mourn me dead; think I am gone and wait for thee, for we shall meet again …”
I just want to thank you so much. Every writer of gorgeous fanfics (especially about brotzly). Every artist, who created lots of pics. Every tumblr-blogger, who gathers different gifs/screens/tweets and other stuff from all types of the resources, who produces jokes and theories about our heroes and the whole plot.
All together you are creating the warmest space I’ve ever seen. It’s like to be under a blanket made from the wool of a five-month alpaca, so cozy and soft and full of tenderness!
THANK YOU.
(There’s no strong connection between that I’ve turned into a total w r e c k after watching the Ninth episode and the fact that I’ve decided to post this confession right now. It’s just a coincidence, believe me!)
((Btw, is that an actual link to the Hitchhiker Guide? Where is Dirk’s towel?))
hey folks! since Valentine’s day is two weeks away, here’s a kind reminder that i’m selling romantic stationery products on my shop! some will stay exclusive to the release and not get restocked. i’m based in france and ship worldwide ❤️
My shop is open!“Love Letter” is a valentine’s day themed collection based on old romantic stationery with pretty wax seals, messenger birds and cherubs Some products will only get one run and won’t get re-stocked!
