lunch table for two

Dear reader,

There must have been something I missed. Some untold universal secret: how to keep people around. I wouldn’t like to admit my loneliness, it sticks to me like an embarrassing and obvious stain. There are two people of value to me, and two people alone. I think sometimes that I should be grateful for this, it is more than nothing. But I take moments to stare at large gatherings of friends. I watch them talk about nothing. I watch them discover new things about each other, tell new stories. My one and only friend knows too much of me already. My girlfriend is only mine when we are alone. I exist in groups only in flashes. I watch those same groups continue to stick together without me. It must be my fault. I was never told some secret whispered throughout playgrounds. I was truly alone growing up. I now cling to only a few, it is all I fear I can handle at once. No one taught me to be the social juggler all those I love seem to be. 

Eternally yours,

Astrid xx

letters to my love no.2

Dear [    ],

You will say things you don’t mean

And you will say them because you are young and hopeful and love has not yet been disillusioned

Because you will convince yourself that it is the truth, that we are the outliers in a sea of grim odds

You will say that you can’t imagine being with anyone else 

That I’m the prettiest girl you’ve ever met, that when everything is said and done it will be you and me, and the end of it all

 And I will believe every word you say like it is gospel

We will say I love you because we believe ourselves in love, and trade falsehoods because we believe ourselves honest

 And one day you will find someone new, and they too will be the only person you could imagine yourself with

They too will be the prettiest girl you’ve ever met

And we will be strangers, barren of the memory of our whispered promises

 And someday we will meet again, by some wayward stroke of luck

And we will say I miss you, and this will be honest

Eternally yours,

Astrid xx

letters to my love no.1

Dear [    ],

My arms are full of you, skin blessed with the memory of your touch

I have spent my life in search of the curve of your collar bone, the ripple of your spine against your flesh

My soul longs not for your heart, but the corners of your mouth, the gaps between your fingers

Eternally yours,

Astrid xx

i do not wish for death

i do not wish for death

but i do wish to sleep until every thought has been drained from my skull

until my sunken shoulders fall flat and i am utterly weightless

until each vein runs dry of this coarse venom blood of mine

until i feel silence wash over me like a void of the deepest midnight black

until i am at unadulterated rest

yet these things seem to take a lifetime, perhaps to cost one

maybe it is so that these two wishes are one in the same, a mere reflection of the other

otherworldly

Dear reader,

The rain is pouring, and it’s sneaking in through the window. My bed is placed against its frame, and with every soft drizzle the wind blows its evening accompaniment onto my blanket. I used to hate the feeling of being wet, walking home from school only to find yourself drenched as you wander deserted suburban crossroads. Now I seem to accept every drop as mother nature's own personal offering, seeping into the skin as I’m reminded of my own humanity, my role in a world in which water falls from the heavens. I could do this to just about anything you see, that’s what being in love does. The things I used to despise now flaunt a new poetic nature. Suddenly this dull reality is otherworldly. 

Eternally yours,

Astrid xx

Dear reader, 

The crushing weight of expectation is too often the plague of youth. To be what others expect you to, particularly as a young girl. I carry with me an incessant need to be well-liked, to fabricate a façade so blindingly and unabashedly hollow simply to meet the needs of everybody around me. I am something of a caretaker, the kind of person to shed tears at the thought of others hardships. Empathy has been woven into my every bone, and its darker effects seem to bite at the marrow. 

Eternally yours,

Astrid xx

Dear reader,

It’s almost comical how quickly normalcy can become to feel like a poison. I can feel the predictability of my every move coursing through each vain. Waking up at the same time each day, having routines, things to trust and rely on has become a mere side effect of my boredom. My life is in perfect order, things are going as well as they could, yet I feel I am simply waiting until it’s all ruined again, for something exciting, something to break the smooth coasting of each day. Perhaps it will be me, maybe my sabotage will be for the better, though I’ll surely regret it. It seems as though that moment is too good to pass up. The brief excitement of standing on the precipice of complete destruction. 

Eternally yours,

Astrid xx

the bridge

         I ask to sit at the same spot as the day before, though the winding path of the stream below is barren of its usual offerings, and the bridge is a mere few feet off the ground. The wood is dry and washed over with the dirt and damage of countless passersby. As we settle into the close-grained planks, the wood prods at the underside of my legs, tearing through nylon and daring to place delicate rips in the surface of my skin. The air carries the moisture of morning dew, thick with every breath. The greenery is altogether familiar, the splashes of yellow amongst hues of dull-green. The trees above conceal the brightness of midday, and weeds and grass are strewn about, accompanied by a collection of plants that resemble poison ivy but don’t seem to bear it’s bite. There is nothing particularly breathtaking about the scene, nothing to spare a second thought to. Yet if we sit there long enough for the sun to lazily make its way towards the horizon, it’s light shines through the trees foliage, just enough to illuminate the greens in her eyes that I never seem to see enough of. And there is something about her voice that sounds better when underscored by the rustling of branches, and distant chirps from the birds flying overhead. Our pleasantly ordinary conversations seem to hold more weight when placed under the ever-shifting sky. Though our surroundings may not have been anything special, the soul seems to breathe life into its fabric, taking up space and finding home in the places where superficial splendor does not. And so, despite the mosquitos' hums and the sun's unrelenting heat, I continue to find solace in the mundane, and ask to sit at the same spot as the day before. 

in sickness and in -------

Dear reader,

I like being sick. When I was young my mother showed me no compassion except when I was physically ill, and my fondest memories remain ones of her checking my temperature and taking me to the er and getting me glasses of water. Because at least then I was remined that she cares, perhaps not for me but my well-being. It’s pathetically sad, the morose recognition that I pay for my greatest comfort with pain. 

Eternally yours,

Astrid xx

am i cured or is it just mania

Dear reader, 

There's something so distinctly melancholy about crashing after a few days of euphoria. I never seem to fully grasp while it’s happening that it won’t last forever. I convince myself that I'm doing better, making progress and art and new philosophies about life. I laugh by myself at the sheer enjoyment of the world around me. I really think things will change, put my trust in the stars. And they never do. Because without fail, this lasts for a day or two, three or four if I’m lucky enough. The older I get the bigger the disparity between my emotions becomes. One moment I’m full of hope and aspiration, and the next I can’t tell if the red stain on my shirt is sweet and sour sauce or blood. It all gets a bit grim rather quickly. And yet it pains me to look back on all the moments I thought I had found the antidote, when I quit caffeine, or tried veganism, or started waking up at 5:30am. I am always stuck in the free trial of happiness, and it always expires when I really need it. The bigger the high, the deeper the hole it leaves behind. I am left with vacancies where inspiration one stood. Every painting of mine is left unfinished. 

Eternally yours,

Astrid xx

too difficult

Dear reader,

I am solemn today, mourning the loss of a friendship that unraveled at my hands. In my juvenile hope I really believed this might last. It feels pathetic to be hurt, as if I’m playing the victim to myself, a desperate attempt to feel helpless, to absolve myself of responsibility. This is the nature of being human isn’t it, we hurt people we love. Not by any purpose of course, but by the sheer imperfection of our humanity. I feel as though I’m trying to convince myself as I type. Let me start over. I am not a very good person, not in the classical sense of good. My intentions are pure, but my actions reveal every insecurity and delusion I have, whether I’m holding on too tightly for fear of losing everything I have or picking at wounds that have already been healed. I feel utterly impossible to be around. Once a friend gets close, they vanish from my life shortly thereafter, with one constant left behind. I know I’m difficult, I know I’m too emotional and it makes me say things I normally wouldn’t. But I need people, and I need them to tell me that I’m good. Because I am trying. Yet no matter what my effort, some people can’t be close to me for long, not for their own sake. I don’t blame them, I hardly like being around myself either.

Eternally yours 

Astrid xx

pity me

Dear reader, 

In my kind of selfish, convoluted way I sometimes wish other people could feel the way that I do. At my lowest, sinking into the vacancy, just to jump to astronomical highs. Everyday, day in day out, over and over, the persistent pendulum of emotion drags on. Sometimes I dare to think it monotonous, becoming accustomed to this morose kind of roller-coaster. It’s an awful thing isn’t it, being so desperate for a little understanding that I’d dare wish my shortcomings on anyone else. I, of all people, should know what a terrible thought that is, the plague buried deep in the hollows of my chest. But I am lonely, and in some twisted way the pain of others is a pale cast of comfort. I feel I must beg for empathy, for people to feel sorry for me. I crave their pity. They never seem to understand why; it’s true that the minutiae of the inciting events makes it difficult, but just once I wish they could feel the depth of its effects. I’d hate for you to think I’m not self-aware however, the angsty “no one understands me” teenage bullshit is painfully obvious to me. Yet the emotional isolation of living through these kinds of illogical and dramatic changes in mood, at such a frequency that exhausts those around you, is ever present. Whether they care to admit or not, I burden people. And I can only plead for their sympathy, like a petulant child who has yet to figure out how to control themselves. 

Eternally yours,

Astrid xx

screenplay

Dear reader, 

Being loved feels so foreign, my mind falls short of grasping the concept. I know that she loves me, logically I know it as fact. But something as intangible as feeling will never settle into my mind in this manner. I often forget it’s there to begin with, find myself reminded that this isn’t some hopeful fantasy I’ve created. I’ve been living in daydreams for as long as I can remember, half convincing myself it was real. Yet this reality feels more fabricated than my imagination ever did. I’m happy, happier than I’ve ever been even, but I fear I’ve become so detached from the realities of romance that I will never truly know how it feels. I’m in love, movie-type love, she's-always-on-my-mind-type love, but I see us as mere characters in the screenplay I've been producing within my own head. 

Eternally yours, 

Astrid xx

grasping onto water

Dear reader,

I’ve begun to walk through life as if it’s my last day on earth. Instability has plagued me with a fear of change, the conviction that at any moment all that is good will come to a crumbling defeat. Holding onto each moment feels like desperately trying to grasp onto water as it runs through the gaps between my fingers. I appreciate the way the leaves play melodies with the wind, breathe in the faint smells of suburbia, of pavement and gasoline and freshly mowed lawns. I have held dear common-practice niceties as if they were grand acts of generosity. At once I have things to live for, I’ve begun thanking the sun and fearing the turns of the earth encircling it. Surely I’m not deserving, not of the love I’ve felt, nor the opportunities I’ve been granted, nor the air passing through me with every breath. Eventually all I’ll have to hold are memories. So I stare a few moments longer, try to memorize the cadence of the laughter around me, the warmth of every touch. I can’t help myself but detach from the present in bittersweet recognition of my happiness, and the uncertainty that I’ll carry on without it.  

Eternally yours,

Astrid xx

nobody’s type

Dear reader,

I am not her type. I fear I’m nobody's “type”, more of an acquired taste, an exception made in despite of rather than because. Her celebrity crushes bear no resemblance to me. Maybe I look too far into this, maybe I make problems where there are none. But I am seeking the unattainable nonetheless. Maybe she would take a moment longer to look away, smile just that much more when she saw me, if I were to wear my hair short and dark as molasses. If the structure of my jaw and cheekbones were more pronounced, if I were slender and angular, if I were taller, if my eyes hung lazily and my resting expression was one of intimidation. If I were calm and cool with the ease of someone who commands authority without speaking a word. If I were bad for her, if I stood her up and left her only to return weeks later. Maybe the conflict would be more interesting, maybe I bore her. Because I am none of these things, I am every opposite. I am the antagonist. My features are fair, the lines of my body curved, my eyes rounded and eager to please. I love her the way I believe love is to be conducted, with compassion, and empathy, and warmth. We are two sides of a scale, though I fear the differences are more barrier than balance. 

Eternally yours,

Astrid xx

i miss you more

Dear reader,

My girlfriend is, as awfully cliché as it sounds, the best love I’ve ever felt. I believe her when she says she loves me, when she says she won’t leave. I hang on her every word like it’s the last one I’ll hear her speak. But the relationship is new, and I’m so terrified of everything slipping away that I fall into old habits. I hold on too tightly, obsess, become codependent. Without being able to see her due to covid restrictions it feels as though she’s all I think about. My girlfriend is easily distracted, and things slip from her mind on occasion, as she gets caught up in the day’s affairs. She has siblings to go on walks with, and laugh with, and keep her busy. I have no such luxury. My days are spent in my head. I wonder what she could be doing at this moment, how she’s feeling, if she’s thought about me, how she slept last night, if she thinks I’m pretty, or too annoying, or a bother, or if I was too short with her over text. I do not plague her mind this way. Sometimes I wish I did, other times I think she’s rather lucky. She does her best to reassure me, but every time we trade “I miss you more”s I know which one of us is lying. 

Eternally yours,

Astrid xx

the words couldn’t escape my mouth...

I wrote this after a failed attempt to come out to my family in which I ended up not saying anything at all, though my mind seemed to be louder than ever. 

The words couldn’t escape my mouth, as if my lips were the great barrier between the person I was and who I so desperately hid behind. It's a melancholy existence, the kind that doesn't dare to be expressed beyond the shadowy streets of thought. I paused for a moment, collected my woes, and for just that frame in time was I so free in everything I had held onto as tight as a ship built into a glass bottle. And in that very same moment, just as the words challenged the tip of my tongue I was consumed in shame, embarrassment, and the darkest convictions I had taken on as passengers on that maiden voyage. I was regretful to confront the self loathing my sense of identity had been bathed in. So instead I chose to live out my dreams in quiet, morose defeat, all within the confines of my very own ever spinning skull. 

Astrid xx