you know what bothers me the most? it’s never how much someone pulls away, or how they read your scars with self-diagnosis, how they judge your responses.

it’s the lies. the lie of their care. the lie of their fear. the lie of their contempt.

am I so gullible to think that still, through the lies, I can love you? I must be so crazy to see your pity as high regard. I had forgotten that silence perceived feels anxious but understood can be weaponized.

I must be a fool to answer the questions I know I can’t even answer to myself. you make me brave the same way you make me weak, with a curiosity to feel the ether of my beginnings yet inspect the scars near the ends.

It must be some gift to make the storyline so real, so raw, to watch the different paths dissipate with a tap.

Distance has never seen me grow, it has always seen me drown.

I’d forgotten that the only ear that hears me scream at night is mine, the one that wakes up in tears, remorse, fear.

yet here I am, wondering who will get to hold your hand at night when you can’t sleep, dry your tears when you can’t beat em, and dream to live with you.

I miss you,

so much that it scares me to see you.

Would you be mad if I told you?

my love for you sings in silence.

I heard your voice in the cabin of my car

driving to see you while getting high,

shaping my symptoms from falling behind

telling you I lied, I wanted to cry.

These times I wanted to hide,

that these days of being alone have

given me the strength to pass life by.

I thought of an intro much livelier than that,

an extrovert who dreams of your silence rather than your sigh.

Sometimes I think about what I’ve left behind,

consuming energies darker than mine

all for performing a damn fucking lie,

regretting the lone nights I didn’t have

What is an extrovert in bed called?

a loud scream for peace absent of goodbye.

Nostalgia: I met her in a movie theater somewhere in coral gables under the half-moon sky and with tears pouring down my eyes.

I saw her again in the lies of a lover, the deceit in our love; its eternal manifestation.

I let her stream through my ears via the words of great artists that I can’t call or text, even e-mail if it was still a transactionless mode of conversation.

I had coffee with her in a make-a-wish version of a Parisian cafe as we bonded over existentialism and emotional ruptures birthed generations before mine.

When I came face to face with her, all I could ask myself was why she was withholding tears from her eyes when the truth we came to know deep within poured out into realness.

When I’d seen her before, all I wanted to do was get lost in her, ask her the questions I couldn’t answer about my past, present, and future, and let myself seep in the emptiness of answers.

But this time, this time I felt her far away from my feelings and tribulations.

Have I forgotten? Am I this numb to it all? Did I really give up my consent to move on when she knocked on my doors and closed my windows?

When she questioned herself in front of me in regard to her morality and looked for a bite I could not produce, all I could do is question mine for thinking about the fact that I have not thought or felt this much distance between my thoughts and her aforementioned facts before this reunion.

How could I forget to remember, to feel the same pains that grew inside me even if just for a few hours, months, a year? A mirage of what life could’ve been with the liar, the ghost, the fool, and the null.

I love them all the same, but differently now. Even when I’m sitting here, having coffee with the same nostalgia that will haunt them for the rest of their lives.

I wish I could just see it, hear it, feel how much they flinch when they hear my name, remember my soul, pay homage to my body.

All the possessions I always owned but was willing to grow in tandem with theirs.

Yet here I am, still alone, forgiving her for leaving me again.

My first love was invisible.

I fell in love with someone who made me believe in love again. Someone who wore their mind on their sleeve but kept their heart locked up in the safeguards of isolation. Someone who promised to tell the truth about who they were and what they’ve been through but used their leverage over my emotions to get what they wanted and skip over the rest. I fell in love with an illusion of what I now know I want the next person I love to be like, and what I know I’ve loved for years. I fell in love with a trap, a disguise, a magic trick.

To you, my love, I dedicate this letter. I doubt that you’ll ever know the truth; not because I’m afraid or incapable of telling you, but rather because you “told me so”, and thus I’ve decided that you don’t deserve it.

When we met it was like I had felt myself again, like I believed in who I was and what I believed in like you believe in your convictions and your beliefs. Since we met, we’ve had small periods of time to spare and get to know each other, and I guess quickly we vaguely did. I had never met someone who was foundationally unafraid to show me their intentions, share their feelings, and find existential meaning in words like you did. You could tie a bar to a memory, a recollection of feelings, a gut-wrenching anger for those who suffer. Yet you could also wallow in your privileged guilt and humble yourself to fire your passion for helping others with the opportunities you were given.

When I met you, my mind couldn’t stop thinking, processing, wanting you. Every meeting was filled with questions, concerns, doubts, but nonetheless passion. I was passionate about learning about you, who you like (or don’t like), what you deal and how you deal, why you believe and why you do not; in everything and anything. I had become the girl that went along, thought twice about letting fears and insecurities seep in, became less cautious and more outgoing. I became someone who pushed and showed interest in what I wanted.

Yet, when I made a move you sat there, gawking. Seeing me like I’ve never been exposed before, showing you the symbols buried in my skin.  I took you as a sign and accepted your distance. Timing and distance weren’t in our favor, and now I know the reason.

I stayed thinking, listening, supporting, and helping you believe in yourself. Even today, I stand beside you selflessly and relentlessly fighting to believe in the one inch of courage I have to believe that my love for you was true, honest, REAL.

But I cannot, you see. I can’t believe your story, your words, your denial and rejection of me and us and you and me because when we were the most intimate, you were there with me. On the same frequency, on the same team, in the same room, on the same bed.

I never pushed you to care. Rather, I masked your intentions to use me and morphed them into what I wanted you/them to be; sincere interest, concern, maybe love. But it couldn’t have ever grown because with you I let myself fall. Fall behind on being critical about our relationship, about my feelings for you, about who you really are. So, since the last time I saw you, I’ve come to a few conclusions.

You’re selfish, you are mean, you lied to me, you betrayed me. You played me like you told me you have done to others, like you said you didn’t want to play me, like you said I shouldn’t be treated. You prescribed all the symptoms just as they occurred. Except I’m not who they were prescribed for, I’m seeing that now.

Even though I wanted to be everything, now I know I was nothing.

Maybe you’ll know who you are and hate me. Maybe you already do. Maybe we’ll never speak again. I’d wonder if I could.

 

Your eyes are deceiving,

craving a reaction to spark a contraction

an infatuation with being wanted but wanting not,

raiding the feelings established to fall no more

crumbling them into manipulation,

a mere deception of who you really want to give in to temptation

it’s you again, you again

just you, more you, and no “I”