Screaming and cursing your name over the phone will never be enough. You seem to reject the notion of shame and guilt entirely.

I so passionately wish to bash you over the head with a brick instead. You might finally realize, through well deserved pain and disorientation, how deeply you have ruined me.

I wish you loneliness. I wish you abandonment. I wish you unfulfilled hopes and desires. I wish the worst misfortunes and terrors life can offer on those you wrongly hold closest to your heart. I pray you are the only one around to blame.

"I can never read all the books I want; I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited."

The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

I feel as though I can never tell you this, but I am so heartbroken to say the least. I feel I have no right to be but I am. I can never tell you how my soul has felt purposeless, echoing around the empty shell of my person for as long as I can remember. I wish I could tell you that I finally found parts of myself with you, rediscovered my passions long forgotten. I feel you pressed against my back, arms around my shoulders and your fingers gently guiding mine as I write each word that comes to mind. I sit alone in a room as I sweep graphite against soft paper and try to illustrate the imagery of your gaze that plagues me. I lay in bed and sing my favorite songs and it feels as though you are beside me, harmonizing every note. My life was spent scared of laughter; now I crinkle up my face and snort and guffaw because you made it feel good. I ache to see the world as you have, and ponder what trinkets I might bring back for you as a token of my travels. I consider what it might be like to try my hand at playing an instrument again after being fulfilled with the wondrous melodies you've brought into existence after your few years of learning. I feel dim now, but the truth is that my world is saturated with passion after allowing you into it. I had longed to fill my person and silence the echoes and was on my journey to do so, but you held me in your arms and carried me along the way for a while. Although I long for your presence again, I must carry my own weight until I find myself; only then will I collapse into her safe and loving arms and tell her all about you. Only then you might be able to find true peace with me because I will have finally found it within myself.

me fr

cred: kendollisms on insta

There is prominent shame in feeling my own pain, and there is an even greater shame in showing it. To become upset with another person is something that makes me so uncomfortable, I can't even begin to imagine it without shrinking into a ball and hiding myself away. Although they can misunderstand and hurt me, and disregard my feelings without a second thought, I would rather suffer in silence than correct how they've pained me. It is easy to manage my own reactions and emotions. It is not so easy to manage that of others.

When we first met in that bar, I think I played it cool. Your smile was relaxed and probably twinkled a few times; I worried about the way I spoke, the way I sat, my makeup, my hair, my dress, anything. You were picturesque. I didn't think your brain could’ve raced nearly as much as mine did.

I was, and still am, learning to be honest about my feelings. I told you I was nervous.

"My hands are shaking. Look." I raised my trembling fingers to show you. It made me feel better to be transparent. Less nervous, even. What was the worst that could happen?

You were sweet in comforting me and assuring me you felt the same. Fat chance that was the truth. Yet, I didn’t let myself ponder how you truly felt because I didn’t think I should care.

On the walk to your place after our drink, I spoke and you were distracted. I questioned my place there with you; was I someone you wanted to know or was I someone you wanted to show off for the night? I assumed the worst and I went with the flow because I decided I really didn't care. I've adapted a way of not caring, or showing it at the very least. To not expect much of others and their intentions with me is the best way to avoid disappointment.

But then we sat in your room and we played each other music. You showed me one of your favorite bands, and I showed you one of mine. Up until that point, it was all sound. There was barely any depth to how I listened to my favorite artists and songs- I lacked the acuity to understand they weren't just making sounds, they were telling stories. I played you my favorite sound, and that night it became my favorite story. I remember how you sat in your chair, elbows on your knees and head hanging slightly. You were listening.

"This is really sad."

It shocked me. Of course it was a sad song, but I guess I never realized how sad. I imagined you listened to all parts of it as you sat there with a deep brow. Each individual instrument, the emotion in the voice that sang, the lyrics, how it all came together to create one sad, beautiful story. You heard it all. And that night I finally heard it for the first time, not only with you but because of you. I don’t think I’ve stopped caring since that moment.

I believe I must write more. I'm scared to do it, or maybe too lazy. Too often I will have a burning thought or feeling that needs to be acknowledged, but I cannot bring myself to expel it from me in full. If I can even begin to explain away my thoughts, it all eventually becomes too much to continue and I almost always leave it in a sad, unfinished draft hidden somewhere deep in a journal or note on my phone.

To leave my words unfinished in that way almost perfectly sums up how I feel. I can feel my hurt and my pain, I can write about it, but an excerpt may never be completed because I simply do not have a conclusion, nor the urge to find that conclusion, whatever it may be. No conclusion to my feelings, no conclusion to the words I write about them. Even in this moment, I am fighting the urge to leave these words unsaid. Fighting the familiar urge to stop writing mid-sentence and abandon this thing altogether.

I am my biggest critic, even when it comes to speaking about my own emotions. I fear sounding too angsty, I fear sounding too negative, I fear judgment from an imaginary observer, I fear the world's greatest writer will somehow read what I write and tsk and scoff and maybe think I am pathetic. I fear ridicule where ridicule is the least likely to come. I reread my words over and over, hoping they are perfect whilst knowing very well I will be the only one to read them.

I will read this over one more time, and then I will stop. I never know how to end these things.