I’ll be honest. I’m very cynical toward love; more so than ever. I’m afraid of being betrayed, hurt, and I have no drive to put myself in a position where my life is dependent on anyone. Even though she showed me the splendor in giving yourself to someone, I also now understand the curse in forgiveness and the plague of losing yourself in someone else. It’s difficult, but I know it’s my turn to apply that which had broke us and what changed us to try being happy again. My first love still burns brightly in me; violent and beautiful. However, the good times are over and done with; Our rough patches and scars remind us of why we had to stay apart, why I gave her up, and why I had to let her go. Now, I’m making new moments and she’s making her own—- taking the places that once were only ours and sharing them with new people; it hurts, yeah, but, as adults we have to see that our paths are irreversible. All I can do now is take what caused our relationship to fail and work on them to make it better for the next time I fall in love. My habits, my faults, my lenience and devote them to someone who was meant for me. I loved her; oh boy, did I love her. As much as our last year drove us apart, I know that there was so much perfection in what we used to share; but people change and lives change. I know that she’ll be ready to fall in love again with someone else and rekindle the lost fire that she’s lost from me. As will I. We are milestones in eachother’s lives that have been lived and passed on. I’m learning to accept that. I’m learning to take our downfall and create something better off of it—- even if the idea of love occasionally seems like the apocolypse. She taught me what it was like to tear down my walls, to give yourself completely, and how it feels to be wanted for all that you are; and although I’m not ready to go through it all again, I know the beauty in falling in love now through her. One day, I’ll be ready to risk it all for that jackpot. Right now, I like where I am and who I chose to start again with. One day, I’ll be ready. One day, I’ll be happy again—- and I hope she’s happy now.
I thought she was a hella flirt. First time I met her, I knew she was the type who was just comfortable around boys. She was basically a flirtatious robot to me. I didn’t like her until later on in my Junior year when she’d call me with her problems or talk to me sincerely until we fell asleep at, like, 3 in the morning. We tried getting together twice, but in vain. The day I realized I liked her still and we started dating again was when I came over one night and we drove around to nowhere. We didn’t do a damn thing, but, it’s just nice to have company when two people are hurting. We just sat in the park and talked; all I knew is that I didn’t want to go home for days.
I have a problem with admitting weakness. The truth is that I’ve had more practice giving advice to others than following my own advice; to which I’m sure most people can admit to doing that as well. Even my own poetry is written behind a mask, I could never go straight out and say, “This is what hurts me. This is what makes me feel terrible at night.” To me, that’s admitting that I’m incapable of helping myself. A fact that I choose to ignore continually. So, I write them out. I admit to strangers the things that I keep buried away and realize them as they come out. I take to prompts the best because it curves what I want to say by what someone wants to hear. I thrive on the satisfaction of telling someone exactly what I needed to get off my chest with something that they needed for themselves, or something they wanted to hear. I feel like nobody wants to hear someone complain about my life. I feel like nobody really understand the beauty and pain in suffering unless it’s told to them the way they asked for it. A song, a poem, an ask, a story—- you name it. When I’m nearing the point of exploding, I write out my problems; I disguise them as art. I disguise it as advice. In the end, I relieve myself of my ticks and find out what I didn’t even know bothered me
My family goes to her house all of the time. I’ve sat down with her mom and grandma a couple times…. her mom wants to get me drunk.
We’ve both talked about coming out to our parents; truth is, neither of us can bring ourselves to doing it. We’re still in the pre-stages of getting together, and honestly, there have been somedays where I would second guess to even continue dating. We work through them, yes. We get past things; but the point is, at the rate at which things are going, there’s no desire to complicate them any more than they already are—- especially with something that could end or evolve in any moment. Also, with our families and friends so closely tied, admitting to everyone that we were dating would invite a number of people into the sanctity of our growing relationship. We, but mostly me, are trying to keep things simple, slow, and wait for the epitomic moment to make things official—- which includes letting the world know.
I need to answer important questions.
I need to reflect on my own thoughts. re-read them a million times.
I need people to ask me things.
I need to answer questions that I’m afraid to face.
ASK, ASK, ASK, ASK, ASK, ASK ANYTHING!