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So if I escape, will my pain go away?
- Jun 22, 2022
- 71
I miss you so much it's fucking debilitating. I miss you like I haven't seen you in months, yet you were just in my arms days ago. I'm never in yours, am I?
I wanted to love you, nearly as much as I wanted you to love me. It's like living with a general sense of malaise just to find someone who shows you color. That's it, that's it! I've been living without color. Then you take those pretty glasses off and take them with you, leaving me once again in grayscale.
I'm fucking hurting and you make me feel like it's in my head. You'll use words to solidify it, yet in both my eyes and my mind, you're a saint. The way the orange glow of the sun shines on your face, and the way the hairs on the back of your neck reflect the light. We've spent nights holding one another, yet that too is only a fantasy. For you turn over every time and I'm holding you from behind, unable to make contact with your hand. I'll look you dead in your eyes and tell you it hurts.
Yet without even panties you'll get in the bed with me and cry as we watch Titanic for my first time. You'll cry and take my hand into yours; you know I will comfort you. Yet, the moment the pain subsides, you'll push my hand away. You know I love you, you know I cut for you, and you know I believe I'd die for you. Why do I feel like I'm simply an available toy? Yet you'll make me food with so much effort put in. You'll talk me though my pain, and kiss my face.
There was a time in which which I could tell the way you liked me from the way your pupils dilated when you looked at me. I don't feel like you even see me when you look at me now. I've gone so many years feeling insufficient, I just-. I wish you would see me.
I couldn't even eat a single fuckin' cracker. I'd timed myself as a joke while I tried non stop to swallow but one while battling the nausea that this existence brings me; it was an hour and thirty-seven minutes. Don't you understand the importance of what you've done for me? Don't you believe me when I say that if I can eat even a salad, that it is because of you?
You tell me that you want me there. I'll spend eight days with you, but listening to one phone call between you and your ex tells me all I need to know. Never have I made you laugh in that way, nor have I ever heard you talk like that with me.
Is it because I'm two years younger than you? Year after year I fear that were I too see my own aura it would be only a dark cloud following me. So I hear you tell me again and again about all of the terrible, just awful, things that these people have done to you. Yet as I plead for your company only so I can show you the love you the love that is apparent you've rarely seen, you just-.
Do you know how it feels to hear you fantasizing of moving away soon and going back to college and meeting the love of your life. Do you know how it feels to hear you speak of having a family on a farm where you take care of your animals? Do you know the pain it hurts to smile and tell you that I know you'll find it some day while it feels my very soul is calling for you to look just a little closer to home? Do you know how your eyes are both a source of wonder and writhing agony?
I cannot help but wish that my father had beaten the very hope out of me. Maybe he already has. See that? I lied to myself.
I wanted to love you, nearly as much as I wanted you to love me. It's like living with a general sense of malaise just to find someone who shows you color. That's it, that's it! I've been living without color. Then you take those pretty glasses off and take them with you, leaving me once again in grayscale.
I'm fucking hurting and you make me feel like it's in my head. You'll use words to solidify it, yet in both my eyes and my mind, you're a saint. The way the orange glow of the sun shines on your face, and the way the hairs on the back of your neck reflect the light. We've spent nights holding one another, yet that too is only a fantasy. For you turn over every time and I'm holding you from behind, unable to make contact with your hand. I'll look you dead in your eyes and tell you it hurts.
Yet without even panties you'll get in the bed with me and cry as we watch Titanic for my first time. You'll cry and take my hand into yours; you know I will comfort you. Yet, the moment the pain subsides, you'll push my hand away. You know I love you, you know I cut for you, and you know I believe I'd die for you. Why do I feel like I'm simply an available toy? Yet you'll make me food with so much effort put in. You'll talk me though my pain, and kiss my face.
There was a time in which which I could tell the way you liked me from the way your pupils dilated when you looked at me. I don't feel like you even see me when you look at me now. I've gone so many years feeling insufficient, I just-. I wish you would see me.
I couldn't even eat a single fuckin' cracker. I'd timed myself as a joke while I tried non stop to swallow but one while battling the nausea that this existence brings me; it was an hour and thirty-seven minutes. Don't you understand the importance of what you've done for me? Don't you believe me when I say that if I can eat even a salad, that it is because of you?
You tell me that you want me there. I'll spend eight days with you, but listening to one phone call between you and your ex tells me all I need to know. Never have I made you laugh in that way, nor have I ever heard you talk like that with me.
Is it because I'm two years younger than you? Year after year I fear that were I too see my own aura it would be only a dark cloud following me. So I hear you tell me again and again about all of the terrible, just awful, things that these people have done to you. Yet as I plead for your company only so I can show you the love you the love that is apparent you've rarely seen, you just-.
Do you know how it feels to hear you fantasizing of moving away soon and going back to college and meeting the love of your life. Do you know how it feels to hear you speak of having a family on a farm where you take care of your animals? Do you know the pain it hurts to smile and tell you that I know you'll find it some day while it feels my very soul is calling for you to look just a little closer to home? Do you know how your eyes are both a source of wonder and writhing agony?
I cannot help but wish that my father had beaten the very hope out of me. Maybe he already has. See that? I lied to myself.
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