Most people follow passions in life because they absolutely must. Writing about my life…the excess of emotion…is the one thing I keep going back to. I’m just more comfortable silent, words screaming out from ink seeping through the fibers of my journals, text on screen. I’m a singer, but I prefer to express myself in silence. I like to narrate from the page like my favorite writers, only less talented. So, her we go again (I wrote this over a decade ago when I was naive and thought I knew everything):
Sometimes he comes to me in my sleep. He haunts my dreams and guides my waking thoughts. When I miss him, he finds me…he was always smart that way. He is the person I talk about most and the only one most don’t know. At this point, there is only one other girl who knew him before it was cool. He is my secret.
I hope you are doing well. I am finally coming out from under your spell. You remain the secret I will never tell.
You say I only loved you when I was bored. You were the only person who ever left me wanting more. Your love is something I will never forgive your for.
You once told me to never say “goodbye.” That one statement is the reason I have been left questioning, “why?” The claim you wouldn’t treat me like some normal, asshole guy…
I don’t love you anymore.
I am exhausted, I miss you, I am still up all night writing. I was always a writer, but only recently an exhibitionist. Losing you taught me to stop judging my “pen” babies.