little letters to the people i was/am/will be close to

my mouth just 
gets fouler the better you know me. 
my grammar gets worse and my punctuation
becomes pretty much non-existent, 
just because i'm comfortable with you now - 
i have no reason to try and keep up appearances. 

sometimes it feels like my writing is the
only real thing about me. 
but even that i'm failing, 
fingers unsure and blank page a spectre.
it haunts me at night and i cannot escape it, 
the way my words turn stagnant and monotone.

when i hold your hand too long, 
i'm sorry. 
i'm just so afraid that if i let go
you will leave, 
and i will be left alone once again. 
i'm never the first one to move away. 

someone once said,
"You do not destroy the people you love."
i'm still trying to manage to believe it. 
i don't think i'm quite there yet.

i didn't mean to. 
whatever it was,
if i accidentally stepped on your foot, 
or misplaced your comic, 
i promise you whatever things you say to me
cannot be as cruel as what i'm telling myself. 

i will dwell on all my mistakes - 
every single one i made, 
it just rotates in my head, 
pig on a spit being turned over the fire, 
i am burning myself to death
from the inside, 
but i can never let the things i did wrong
slide past. 

there will be marks, 
there will always be marks. 
the red raw skin of my wrist
where i scratch away at it with my nails
until it is tender and sore and almost bleeding. 
the bruises that mottle my flesh, 
turn me into a canvas of blue and yellow and purple, 
capillaries bursting as i ache. 
dull pink lines scoring across my stomach 
like i'm trying to rip myself out of my skin. 
i'm sorry i can never be pretty. 

i'll learn to love you over time. 
i fall in love with everyone eventually,
and it wouldn't be so bad if i managed to fall out, 
but i just tip head-first and never find my way out. 
so chances are, i'm probably dizzyingly in love with you, 
and that's just a fact of life
and i'm sorry you have to deal with that but i can't get rid of it.

i think at one point i was worth something. 

the bad days don't end. 

i'm sh*t at music. 
i can sing, but can't play anything 
that doesn't just sound like screeching. 
please don't pull out the flute from that cupboard, 
i think i would actually shatter a window. 

sometimes i think about death
and sometimes my friends think about death 
and the sucky thing is that it isn't just
absentminded daydreams, 
it's real ruminations on the future
and i don't think i'll ever score out death
as a possibility. 

every day i consider that it might be my last, 
and every day i mouth my apologies
to the back of your turned-away head,
because it might come to pass 
that you are still here, and i'm just not. 

i know, i know, 
we didn't grow up into the people we thought we'd be
but i thought that was okay
until i looked at you
and realized you had followed a neat set of pre-penned instructions
while i've been winging it this entire time
and suddenly i see 
that it's just me that went sideways

one day i will tell you the truth. 
that day isn't today. 
it's probably not tomorrow, either. 
even a month from now isn't really looking good.

sometimes we'll hurt each other
and i will hurt myself after
but just please don't blame yourself for it

i will try to shoulder everyone's problems, 
and i can't handle that. 
i'd rather carry it than have them break their backs, 
but. one day i will crumple
and i don't want to send your issues 
just flooding back to you

let me be. 

i will fail a lot. 

i wanted to be beautiful
but the world told me no. 
(and then you told me no.)

i trust my heart to other people
but i will not hold someone else's in my hands - 
i am to frightened of doing something wrong with it

i never thought you were anything less than ethereal.

the 106 paper stars
pouring over the sides of my desk
will not stop. 

i'm sorry for when i leave. 

i still don't know what to say
when you get mad at me. 

The End

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