I don’t know what to write to you, so I’m writing and deleting things as I type this.  I’m pretty tired too, just like you are, and I don’t know if it’s better for us to just stop communication or if quitting communication will just end things faster. 

I don’t know if being honest with you right now is the best thing or not, or if it’s better for me to just keep my thoughts to myself and just be nice to you– as in just pretend to be okay and maybe it’ll get better. I haven’t decided which route to take. I feel like if I’m honest with you it just doesn’t do anything- but I feel like if I’m fake with you then you’ll think everything is okay and move on without any second thoughts. Then everything circles back to the root of the problem and then I’m lost in that cycle again (at least for now). 
I wonder.  Are you even curious about my days? Or does it just feel nice to know that you have a friend back at home that you put on hold.  Someone that you water a few times a day when you’re bored.  Have I really become this person to you?

Probably not.  But, we were close once.  

Indeed, we were close once.

Maybe this broken path can never be fixed. But, it was only lightning that struck once.  Nothing more nothing less.  Something so small and trivial yet so thunderous and impactful.  Tunes that cut into my skull.  Maybe you’ll bleed out too once I pull your trigger. 

Cause triggers- oh, there’s just so many triggers.  So many minuscule actions that built up throughout the course of the season.  

But it wasn’t all that bad.  

You made me sing at one point.  Maybe even dance.  

You helped me fly through the cracks and the tunnels when I was too afraid to skim through.  

But, like a child I am faced with too many fears.  Too many voices and too many worries.

I’ve lost people before, and this won’t be new.  

Yes, we were great once, but we’ll be even greater apart.

Does this even make any sense to you?

I wonder how you’re doing.  I wonder if you’re okay.

I liked your frizzy, colored out hair.

But shaved wasn’t so bad either. 

My dear friend William, it’s been ages since we last shared words over tea and snickerdoodles, but it’s days like these that make me think of you most fondly.  I miss you, and I wish you were next to me, passing your fingertips through my knotted hair stands and cooing your low tunes under my spotted, dipped cheek.

Life hasn’t been the same since the day you broke our paths.  My heart isn’t nearly the same, and no matter who tries to piece it back together, I think only of you.

There is no one who understands me quite like you did.  I’m only the same to all- a lying conniving sack of blubber that houses psychotic tendencies that no human mind can comprehend.

All I hear are lies.  All I feel are lies.  

All who love me are lies.

It must be better off for me to be alone, isn’t that right William?  Being alone isn’t too hard.  I’m used to the cycle of the comings and goings.  They’re all shiny new jigsaws ready for me to rake through.  And they do not know me.  They only see and taste me.  

But you said that love is the answer.  

But what if the love you have isn’t the love that completely fills you.  What if you’re so traumatized by the sounds made from whistle blowers that you’re unable to take another leap towards faith?

You lied to me, over and over again.  But the lying held ounces of truth to it– truths that you yet did not know.  

But what are they now?  

They’re reasons for me to jump and leap into another’s person’s arms in order to break away from the vicious cycle of relationships and figure 8. They’re reasons for me to scratch and tear through you with my bladed nails in order to taste the pain that rolls through your skin.

I miss you.

I miss you because I miss the person I was before I met you.  

You left me insecure and withering. And all I want to do is hurt you. 

And maybe really that’s the only answer that’s left.

To hurt you and pierce through you like you do to me. 

Sometimes it’s just easier to leave the pieces hanging rather than to stitch them back together.

Stitching takes time and patience.  It’s a balance of retaining the old while also integrating the new.

But sometimes stitching over the same hole may lead to bigger cuts.  The cuts into irreversible rips.  The rips into hanging threads and dangling pieces.

And to that I say,

“Close your eyes and keep on trekking.  Backwards and forwards, sideways and onwards.”

Leave the hanging pieces to dry.

And leave the irreversible rips to dust.

To me and to you, they’re all just scraps anyways.

Sometimes when it starts to rain, I like to sit inside my car with all the lights off and pretend that I’m thinking of something extraordinary– something so extraordinary and strange that it makes the angels out in the world stop and stare at me in surprise (or rather, in disgust). 

But, most of the time I’m just staring blankly out into the crying world thinking about you.  And in my reality, there are many yous in my world. 

There’s the you who ran off with my bike at the wee age of fourteen.  Then there’s the you who puffed circles of clouds into my hair while reading lines out of cheesy bedtime love stories.

There’s the you who painted my fingertips dark grey mixed in with blue, and then the you who plucked the black wilderness out of my innermost thighs. 

It’s raining, and it’s just me inside this strange little bubble of mine, thinking of you intertwined with the current me– legs bunched up together, knees pushed towards the ground.  Hand on hair, lips to  teeth.  Your sounds, the moans, scraped skin under slightly bit fingernails.  

You’re all the same to me– all jumbled up into one big mess of things.  

And that’s fine.  
That’s all fine.

I’m fine.

Here’s to you.  The reason for my bitter sweet words, and the reason why my breath still tastes strangely like peppermint.

Once it stops raining my world will start to spin again.  

But until then, hello.  Hi there.  How are you doing?  Does the sun still shine brightly for you?

 

There are two pairs of shoes when there is only a need for one.  

The next chapter is not a continuation of the first. 

Beetles travel in packs- except during the windiest of days.  

The big toe is painted a darker shade of red compared to the second toe from the right.

My heart speaks the language of tongues. My eyes seek the presence of nonexistent scripts. 

My mind cannot be contained. 

I will not proceed.  She will not proceed.  We will not proceed. 

The nights are cold, but the seventh night will be coldest.