My heart has been hurting, trying to leap through the soft spot just above it. The place you once rubbed your stubble against until it I moaned. I liked the little things you'd do for me. Things like that. Things that showed you cared.
I hurt. and it's unnecessary. All I want to do is lay in bed with you and read comics. I want to turn to you and kiss you. I want you to rub my head. I want you to care about me.

I want you to let go of whatever is holding you back, and I want you to relax into me.

This hurts more than I would have expected.

It's only through deleting your number and deactivating my facebook account that I have managed not to contact you.
Please talk to me. Please get in touch.

I miss you.

I write you letters that I don't send. Sometimes I don't bother finishing them and I just draw all over the bottom half of the paper. I think about mailing it anyway, but I don't want you to see my scribblings. I've never seen anything that you've drawn. I've only barely seen your handwriting.
Does writing this help? Is it better that I get it out somewhere, even if it isn't to you? I wanted to write a zine called "_(my name)_ loves _(your name)_" and then send it to you. But that's creepy and stalkery and WHY DID YOU TELL ME NOT TO GIVE UP ON YOU?

Why is that what I keep thinking about?
Why did I let myself have hope?

"Everyone leaves me," I said, and you rolled your eyes.
But you did it too.

I see a picture of you and it makes my heart hurt.

I want to know about your point of reference.
Your point of view.

Or how about your point, at all?

I don't want to wait for you. This is fucking bullshit.

"Am I looking at days, weeks, or months before I hear from you?" I didn't bother waiting to see if the message sent. I am so tired of getting no reply from you. I am so sick of you just jerking me around.

Why do you do it? Why are things this way? Why can't you fucking relax and then I can fucking relax and then we can fuck and relax together? Why is everything so fucking difficult?
I am crazy. This is making me crazy. You can't be around me because I am too intense. I feel too intensely. I feel things for you too intensely for you to handle.

I am angry. I am angry because I want you and for some reason I just can't keep myself away. I don't want to feel crazy over anyone. Especially not you, who would rather sequester yourself away than care.
I want to be something genuinely special to you, but you refuse to acknowledge that such things exist. I want to be different to you, but if you say I am then you also say that everyone is different to you. I am not something that shines in your mind but you do in mine.
"Crazy is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
"Crazy is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
"Crazy is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
"Crazy is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
"Crazy is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."
"Crazy is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

Crazy is me wanting you.

Stop fucking hiding from me.

I want to tell you that I love you but I'm not sure if it's true.
I have vivid fantasies of putting my collar and cuffs on you and connecting the rings so you cannot move. I day dream about putting my ball gag in your mouth. I envision how it would look with all your missing teeth. I hope you'd drool. I hope you'd look angry as I crawl on top of you.
I hope you'd squirm.
I could put a blindfold on your and rub my breasts against your chest. I could lick down your rib cage and bite where the bones push against your skin. You would pump your legs, bite the ball gag, squirm and moan and feel crazy.

Will I get to do these things to you?

Will you let me tell you?
We spend such little time together now. I think we saw each other more before you liked me. Am I frightening? What is going on?
How deep is "like?"
Who else are you fucking?

I miss our crazy, kinky sex.

I want to tell you this, but I don't want to expect a response. So I will write it here.

I really like the back of your neck. It's beautiful.
That's all.

I don't wonder if you loved me. I know that you did. What I wonder is how you can still love me and yet be so blind to the pain you have caused, and continue to cause, me.
We were gonna go to Texas to confront your old demon. I looked up doctors to heal your scar. I found one, but you seemed reluctant. I would have paid to take the pain away. I painted a picture about it. Where your power comes from. Your new girlfriend said it was the source; I said "yeah, I told you."
You didn't listen to me. Not sure if you ever did. Pretty sure you just did what you wanted to do; didn't matter who it would hurt. Yet you took the stance of martyr. Said you weren't selfish. Baby, everyone's selfish. How could you be so out of touch?
You wrote me a letter and outlined me as nothing. You used subtle terms to assert blame. You are a master at the passive-aggressive guilt game. You are elite without instruction; you are a natural; so natural even you don't notice. I've had the past year to deconstruct you. I am still angry. I may always be angry. You still haven't apologized. Will you ever find your own sincerity?

I may have said I would contact you when I was ready. I also said I didn't want to hear from you until you had done to you what you had done to me. Until you understood the pain. Until you knew heart break.
I have never been affected by someone the way you affected me. I have never hurt like that. I hope I never do again.
My lover rubbed the ribs beneath my ache until they were bruised. I almost always think of you when my breastbone hurts. Now I press the hurt and feel better. He missed the spot I needed touched. But that physical pain emphasizes the emptiness just above it. I feel better. I feel better because someone else's memory is joined to that spot now.
I thought that when I finally heard from you, it would be with some sense of humbleness from you. But no; you are still cocky, and self-centered, and unaware of your own actions. You still find tiny ways to hurt me. How do you do it, after all this time? How can you still throw in those little words that prick me? Furthermore, why? You left me, you unrepentant asshole. You left me. And yes, it still hurts.
I told myself I wouldn't initiate contact. I didn't. I am amazed that I kept that promise to myself. Usually I fold. Maybe it was the way you ignored me for so long after you killed me. Maybe it was the pain. Maybe I just finally accepted that there is nothing I can ever say that will get through to you. There isn't. There has never been. You are a lost case. You are hopeless.
And in my anger I find you worthless, too. Not just in my life, but in the grand scheme of the world. You add nothing. You are useless.

I say that and, though there is some truth to it, I know it's just the pain speaking. I know it isn't really true.
But you hurt me.

The simple truth.

You hurt me.

And as long as I'm alive, you will continue to.

If I were to write here every time I thought of you, there would be hundreds of messages. The only words would be, "I miss you."
I mailed you a letter. Did you get it? If you did, did you read it? What does it mean to you? What does it mean now to me?
Riding my bike today, I thought of your ex-addiction. All those pain killers. Where is your pain now? What happened to it? Oh, I ache for the fullness you provided. I miss your smile.
Those accidents and shattered bones. I touched your clavicle. I loved it. I wanted to use it to pull you to me; those handles that you only spoke of once. Why did you let me in? Why do you keep me out?
I mean ... what did you think would happen?
I know what I thought. I thought you would love me.
It was foolish. It was hopeful. It was a day dream to keep me going. There is no me for you in your mind, is there. So many "if"s. No definites.

I miss you.
Do I keep myself this way?
Do I keep myself missing you?

"You need to learn to let go. Have you tried meditation?"
What if I don't want to let go, because if I let go of these feelings then I'll have no proof you ever touched me at all.

I miss you, and I think you might miss me too. I feel stupid for sending you texts yesterday. I was high and weak and I wanted to talk to someone that I knew would understand. I wish I could drop my pretensions and just let myself go with you. I wish I wasn't always so worried about losing. What does it matter now? I've already lost.

I miss you.
I read potential but closed the book. I couldn't do it. I wasn't strong enough.
I wanted to wait. But how long can I wait? Not long enough.
Now I miss the feelings I felt when I was around you. I miss your arms, and your lips, and your smell. I miss your legs, your touch, and kissing your hips.

The little noises you would make. Your uncontrolled movements.
I miss your voice. And I miss you telling me things about yourself. You didn't know how much I liked to hear you talk. I miss your brain. I miss your words.
I would've told you if I could've told you, but how would you have reacted?
I mailed you a letter yesterday. I hope you read it. I hope it's good to you.
I miss what might have been, but really, what is that anyway?

I want to hear from you.
I don't know how to do this. I have to be secure in the feeling that I will hear from you eventually. I have a lot of difficulty doing that. I think about how comfortable you feel with me and how easily you touch me now. I think of that and I feel better. Things are different from how they once were. I will hear from you.
Right?
And just like that, the anxiety rises in my chest. Why does this matter so much? Why can't I just accept my life, day to day? You implied that you think of me sometimes. I think of you so much more than that. But what if this non-communication can make that cease? What if I can learn to just fucking relax and give up my crazy need for control?
That would be wonderful. Do you know? Have you been there?
You are not so advanced from me. Just different.
I think about our bike ride. I think about how hard you push yourself then. You challenge yourself that way. How about you challenge yourself with me?

Yeah, I think of how you want to ride up hills just because it's there. Just to show yourself that you can. It reminds me of Gattaca, when Jerome, the natural-born brother, and Anton, the genetically perfect brother, swim in a race against each other. Anton can't believe that Jerome has beaten him. Not only that, Jerome saves Anton and pulls him to shore. When Anton asks Jerome how he won, despite all his flaws, Jerome says this: "You want to know how I did it? This is how I did it, Anton: I never saved anything for the swim back."
That is you. You don't save anything for the way back. Me, I plan for both ways. Is this the difference between now and later? Is this the difference between you and me?

I can't tell you these things, so I'll write them here.

I want to call you and talk to you. I want to tell you what's going on with me. But I can't call because you don't do phones. I can't call because you don't want to hear from anyone every day.

I wanna know if I'm special to you. I think I must be; why else would you hang out with me? Why would you invite me into your bed and recommend comics for me to read, and hold me when we sleep? Why would you do any of the little things you do that show you care?

I want to tell you what you mean to me. I think I scare you. I'd scare you more if I told you. You don't look at me, but I think you want to. I watched you sleep on Saturday morning. You are beautiful. Then your face started twitching; started looking hurt. I stroked your hand until you were calm again. I hid my face in case you woke up. I turned away just in time for you to miss me staring. I loved to see you wake up. I love to see you sleep. Really, I just love being around you.

You're funny. You make me laugh. I understand your need to use humor in uncomfortable situations. I do it myself. Thanks for wanting to know what bothers me when I'm upset. Thanks for understanding.
I like to watch your eyes when the light shines on you. The pupils finally constrict enough for me to see the pattern in your irises. I want to lay you down and watch your eyes. Again, I think it would be too much for you. You are silently forcing me to back off and back down and not consume you with my adoration and desire. Do you know how hard this is for me? This is why people think that you could be good for me.
But I want long-term. You said that your relationship with your ex lasted two years, though she'd say three and a half. Is that the future I can look forward to? Will what we're doing now last for a year until you finally admit that something's happening? Something's happening now whether you admit it or not. I miss you. I think about you a lot. I want to be around you. I want to talk to you. I want to listen, and I want you to listen to me. I want to look at you. I want to touch you.
And I can't tell you any of this now. You rule your life with your brain but are secretly very sensitive and emotional. I live my life with my heart but am secretly very logical. This is my pattern, with some exceptions. People change through people. How can we change each other? Hell, how could I do anything that would influence you?
You don't answer the questions that I ask, but I let it go. I overlook so many things for you. I am trying to learn what priorities are. I am trying to find the right battles to fight. And I do not want anything to build up inside of me like I've done in the past. But it's already started, layer on layer.
I think that you love me but you are not in love with me.
I think that's how I feel too.
And I think you'd want to talk to me every day, but you're scared.
I think I know more than you do. About some things, anyway. The things you don't read in books.
You know?