I don’t know how to be a heart-shaped romantic- don’t know how to turn our crooked teeth and dirty fingernails into something more. I wish I could’ve mastered the art of white lies, I wish I had told the half truths in the back of my throat, I wish it is easy to fool people into believing that there are constellations on their skins and galaxies in their eyes.
I am such a mess. I didn’t get up from the bed until 5, woke up in sore bones feeling like I have fallen against the surface of earth. The sky is getting darker, the silence is deafening, think I am going crazy because I swear I talked to God last night. It could have been a dream but I wouldn’t know. I let myself enjoy the brief moments of indecency and seeking fleeting ecstasy as the loneliness went on, trying to heal myself in whatever bed I end up in. There was blood stain on my sheet, I spent 2 hours frantically scrubbing it in the bathroom until my nails bleach white. This is the worst me.
It has been raining for days. Rainy weather feels like the weeping of God.
These days just seem so long. The boy I loved is a dead boy. The girl I loved is a stranger. Reality feels like imagination and imagination feels like reality and I’ve lost track of time that I can’t even remember how many years it has been since my best friend died.
It has been 1983 years since Jesus was crucified on a pole- I googled it. Google gives us all the answers, I even googled “how to get over a death of a loved one” and it provided me step to step guideline, nonchalant and formulated.
I don’t eat ice cream and cry myself to sleep. Oh come on, I have mundane problems to deal with: I still can’t look people in the eyes, my fingers won’t stop fidgeting and I won’t stop biting my nails- people think I am rude and I am afraid of them. I got in college despite my plan to jump off a building before 18.
My mind is a holographic, collection of nebulous dream fragments and the twitchy epitome of a whole spectrum of emotions.
I am sorry, okay? I am sorry that I can’t keep my promise to love her forever. I am sorry I can’t remember how long he’s been dead. I am sorry that a death wish is not foreign to my mind. I let myself become the person I am now.
I can no longer read your old journals because even with the seams stitched tightly it still bleeds. I’ve missed you since you’ve been gone, I must confess. I miss how we talked about love like we believed it was real, about how people’s stares feel like palms around my neck, about how much I want to get naked and swim in her eyes. Our hair messed just right, eyes shone just bright, bodies pressed together just tight.
I googled “who left me so hollow” and “I think i have killed myself” and it doesn’t have an answer.
I’ve stripped myself of pretentious metaphors. I used to write love letters to strangers out of the tenderness in my heart. Now my words and sensitivity have struggled out of me and it makes me sadder than I should be, so I mourn.
Just chemicals, just adolescent angst. Just my imaginary and I sat on the rooftop watching the world slip away. It’s real or it isn’t. It’s real or it isn’t. It’s real or it isn’t.
Hope you are doing well. Hope I don’t jump off the bridge.