• Unrequited lists

    by  • September 29, 2016 • * Safe for Work *, To You • 0 Comments

    My love,

    Unrequited? Who’d have thunk it?
    How can I love you?
    You don’t love me.
    It doesn’t make sense
    I like things when they make sense.
    I’m trapped in months of wondering and hoping it will make sense soon. I’m exhausted. Why is this happening?
    Am I meant to do something differently?
    How can you feel something so extremely?
    Loving you is exhausting. I need to stop, I have no time to think anymore. My time is so filled up by laughing at your jokes and being silly with you and smiling at you and listening to you and trying to get you to see me and pretending I don’t love you. When I get home at night I am so exhausted from you. And I lie my head on the pillow and I can’t sleep, thoughts of you toss around in my head, they spin through me like I’m still with you, rushing through me, leaving me breathless and tired. My head spins at night with you the way my stomach spins during the day with you.
    You are meant to be the one who falls in love, you are the hopeless romantic, you are the tripper, the tumbler the fall completely overer and never get backuper. Not me. It doesn’t make sense.

    I’m so exhausted from being who I think you would like me to be. But my stomach flips and my eyes water and I look at your silly face and I can’t breathe. And it sounds romantic and like poetry but it’s not. It’s just weird and kind of bitter and sad. It’s unsightly how much I love you. How can it feel so real? What do you think of all of this? DidIi make it up in my brain? That doesn’t seem like something I would do. Why does it feel so perfect when I’m near you, like everything is going to fall into place, I know you can’t fix it but it feels like it sometimes when you’re with me and you make me smile and laugh and I just thought that maybe you might think the same.

    How is this possible? It’s so strange.
    I miss you now.

    I spend my nights making lists in my head and on my phone of why I can’t love you.
    I write about your girlfriend – how she is exquisitely different from me and everything like herself.
    I write about the chances of it working.
    I write that “if you like me that I would know and I wouldn’t be here.”
    I write and I rationalize.
    I make lists of things you do that irritate me – so perfectly annoying.
    I write about your dirty hair and your wayward heart.
    I write about how you can’t articulate things well.
    I write about how you still love her – the old her- and how I’ll never be her.
    I write about how you don’t wear deodorant and I pretend that it bothers me.
    I write about how your house smells like wee.
    I write about how you need everyone else more than you need me.
    I used to write about how if it were you it would hurt him, but I don’t do that anymore cause don’t think he would care.
    I write about how you get get hooked on people,
    I write about how you can’t make decisions and you fall into things accidentally
    I write about how you get lost. (but then I write about wanting to get lost with you)

    I write about these things to stop me from loving you but it doesn’t work. I can’t twist them to be bad in my mind. I love it all, all of the ugly, and then I know I’m crazy.

    I write maybe you wouldn’t love me the way I look.
    I write maybe you’d hate my cellulite, the cellulite I work so hard to love (these crappy thoughts about myself prove to be the most convincing as to why you couldn’t love me.)
    I write that you’d hate my brain, my sickness and the way I do things.
    I write that you wouldn’t like it when I run away.
    I write that you don’t like how I buy too many things even know I don’t agree with that.
    I write about how your brain is bigger than mine.
    I write about how you stay up late and I wake up early.
    I write about how everyone I know has a crush on you, I’m nothing special and how I
    notice all the people who stare at you on the street, they look at you the way I used to when I first just thought you were pretty.
    I write about how I might never stop loving you and how I haven’t felt like this since I was sixteen. But even then — he loved me back.

    Why can’t you hear me when I cry out for you from inside my chest? I thought you were meant to be good at love.

    And then I think. I read the lists back and then I think.
    I think about running away to Berlin together and learning about weird theatre and watching performance art and drinking too much coffee and making fun of how silly it all is.
    I think about eating sushi with you in Japan.
    I think about showing you my favorite parts of my favorite cities.
    I think of Paris, and I know you wouldn’t like it but I would show you anyway.
    I think of showing you parts of me, the real parts that no one sees.
    I think about telling you my secrets.
    I think about showing you my body, just as it is. Not what it was. But what it is.
    I think about you curling yourself around me on the mattress on the floor.
    I think about birthdays and christmases.
    I think about having a puppy with you.
    I think about brownstones the New York and really good story telling.
    I think about dancing with you in the living room, fast and fun at first and then slow. And it lasts forever and it’s awkward and perfect and you love it and I love it.
    I think about what you look like under your clothes.
    I think about what your big hands would feel like on my small self.
    I think about the quietness we would sit in when we really knew each other.
    I think about sharing things with you and holding your hand.
    I think about the way your forehead crinkles and how you got like that,
    I think about that time we went to the pancake kitchen in the middle of the night and I pretended that I ate things like that and you didn’t notice and you told me about your dad and you sat across from me and I cried.
    I think that maybe you could show me how to love without all the rules and the fences.

    I wish it would change but never change. I’m perfectly in love with you, it has no consequences and it’s complete adoration with no risks maybe I’m silly to want you to love me back. It’s so pure and uncomplicated, my way.

    My friend, do you write lists too?
    Do you think about things at night like I do?

    Let me know

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