• Sending Postcards From A Plane Crash (Empty Strings of Thoughts)

    by  • September 26, 2015 • To You • 0 Comments

    Should I even be writing this? I don’t know how mad you are. I don’t know if I’m overreacting, or if it’s my anxiety. Probably both, or maybe neither. I told you it makes me incapable of forming a coherent sentence.

    I’d like to say it was love at first sight, but, in reality, I was just attracted to his looks. I know now who he is… No. Only somewhat. I know the watered-down outer shell of him. You told me not to try anything if I was only capable of loving based on appearance, and now I feel like I should test that, just in spite of you. Just to get back at you for all the ways you’ve hurt me. I know I’d just come crawling back to you, but I don’t know what I’m more afraid of-breaking this sutured friendship off, or having it snapped by someone else. I want so badly to tell you what I think of you, even thought I’m two faced. Or should I say ten faced?
    You’re a whore. You’re a hypocrite. You’re a backstabber. Or maybe you’re brainwashed.
    Or is it me? I’m the whore. I’m the backstabber. I’m brainwashed. But if one thing is for certain, I am most certainly, absolutely, positively, definitely a hypocrite.
    Don’t misgender me. Don’t tell me to back down. Don’t tell me to only try to love someone from my own kind, when you love a traitor. Don’t try to hold that as some twisted form of seniority over my head. You’re brainwashed, I promise, but so am I. I’m on your side, I guess… whichever side that is. I want to say I never want to see you hurt by him, but my need for chaos will eventually outweigh my need for love. It’s hard to say I do, when I don’t. We’re all hypocrites, aren’t we?
    Tell me, why is he so tender? Is this true, the words that you put out for me to obsess over forever, or are you saving him for later? He’s forbidden fruit for both of us. They all are. We can’t trust them. They hold you gently, grasping the knife behind your back, waiting until they get to climax to strike. But we all become that someday.

    I want to fucking obliterate you sometimes, even though
    1) I have some form of common sense left.
    2) I’m too chicken.
    3) I’m scared of what your precious little know it all girlfriend will think of me then. I am scared of my best friend.
    What makes you so snide? Your power over us or your ego? I’m sorry I shoved you, but only really sorry that you’ll end up telling her. My actions always come back to bite me in the ass, and I still can’t ever quite grasp what I’m doing as I’m in action. If I ever talked to you, would you tell her the honest truth? Or would you pit us against each other again? I want to tell you I’m scared of your every move, but I also need to say that I could take you down at any moment if I wanted.

    And you.
    I do love you. Do you know that? I just can’t seem to figure out why. I wish I could say I’ve never felt this way before, but I know it all too well. Somehow, you are my meaning for staying. Not particularly alive, but afloat. Happy. Please don’t change that. I’m not going to hurt myself, but I can promise that I’d never try to hurt you. Tell me, what makes you so tender? What makes you so tender when you always seem so angry? I almost feel scared of you. Maybe, maybe not particularly scared of you, but scared of everyone else. But it’s hard to even introduce myself if people have told you about my worst features.
    I miss you. But how is that even possible? I only know of you through word of mouth. People will only ever gloss over your best traits. I need to say that I want whatever you could offer me, though surely everything will backfire. Are you as easy to love as you are to break hearts? I don’t know you at all, but that’s just my inner genius talking.
    I don’t deserve it.
    I’m too complex, but maybe that’s just my inner genius talking.

    I’m ten faced. I’m twenty faced.
    I’m scared of every last one them.

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