It crept up like a discreet fog that got itself tangled around my ankles. Before, the ache was dull, even familiar - it was the same pain that I've carried for the past year. And I know I've been distracted, subconsciously, or consciously so: finals, graduation, starting a new job, moving to a new home, financial and family problems, keeping friends and starting new friends, even another boy. Now as I'm letting myself wrap in my mind, the same screeching silence that attacks me when I climb into bed and force myself to sleep, the tongue-gnawing pounding in my chest when I stand in the shower and my heart and the water pouring on my head both knocking down my body, I've come to see Us the way we had refused to see. I'm forced out of my makeshift lie of a home, this pseudo-comfort, and I've fallen back into myself, a crumbled wad of paper, tethering neatly back into that goddamn abyss I don't need so close to my house.
The Love I have for you, indescribable-unreasonable-unknown in origins and nature, is a running blood that won't leave my veins. We were both aware of my Love, but I had refrained from expressing it, or at least I tried, because I was afraid. We were both afraid. I had thought distance would just slowly make it erode, disappear, but these "get over it" indicators are just merely distractions that I pile onto my strainer of emotions. A strainer that's clogged up by the fucking gooey substance of this one "emotion"-"feeling"-whatever that I cannot get rid of, no matter how hard I try.
I'm not self-destructing. You've asked me not to. I repressed it, and desensitized it, and now that I'm pulling it from the red bucket of morphine, the numbness is wearing away, and it's still there, uncured. How much longer do I need to keep it down before it'll actually go away?
We lied to ourselves. We did everything we weren't suppose to do. I censored myself. You never told me how you felt, especially in those moments of crisis when we needed to talk it out. You ran away when I tried to broach subjects of distress. Your fucking idealist notions of romanticism isn't practical, at all. There needed to be moments of strife, so we can work it out, talk it through, see our effort bond us and take us places. Everyone puts in that effort, everyone works, because it's natural and wonderful and manageable even if I wasn't too afraid to push you away with my wants and needs, and you just took it in, a cyclone to your inner eye, then you let it swelter and repel you away from the relationship. You just run. As much as I try to hide, you run. And the beautiful things about us, the things we seek in each other, mean nothing. Even love.
And even as I try to hate you, I still fucking love you. I still see us in five, ten years, standing at the edge of the cliff, old enough, mature enough to touch each other without burning, embracing fully without our youth knocking us aside, like two wrong ends of a magnet. This is the phase that I want to end with my adolescence. I want to grow up, and I don't want to have to love you anymore.
I still miss you.
Would you still love me
if I followed the fad
dressed real bad
and blew you?
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