From me to you, dugged out of my blooming heart.
I am here, as close as the present allows me to be. I am sorry, as apologetic as you’ll allow me to be. These words are no longer mine, they belong to you now, take them with you if you must or leave them be if you can’t bare them. I have to give them to you, they are not mine to have, and if I keep them for much longer they take up all the space in me. I’m overflowing when all I want is to bloom. So take them or toss them, let them out of here.
- The boy I failed to love.
He wrote me poems. In them there were words I did nothing to deserve, between the lines there were feelings I had no intention to keep. I did my best to push him away – or so I thought I did – but closer and closer he got. I could no longer breathe.
I shouldn’t be so scared of being the object of literary affection, but I couldn’t handle the outspoken fondness. I’ve learned to love quietly, shyly and slowly and I grow doubtful of such quick attachaments. He was a tsunami of all good things, but one can drown in rivers, even though the waters’s sweet.
Maybe I’m the one who’s broken – and I say this with all the certainty – I’m too slow for the game. Affection doesn’t come easily to me. It’ll take me years to love someone and even longer to trust them.
His only fault was to pick me out of the 7 billion people in the world. The reason why I would be the object of his poems was baffling to me. Anyone else would have taken them into consideration, while I showed a complete disregard for his feelings. It was not fair, I never was. There’s no narrative in which I’m the hero and I have to own up to that.
I should admit that I’d write about him too. I’d write in detail about the softness of his fingertip tracing my arm. I would turn little things into novels. I could write about him for pages and he could lay in my bed for hours, but hell be dammed if I was ever gonna love him.
It wasn’t fair that I told him I wrote about him. It gave him the wrong impression. I know now not to let people know when I write about them, not when I care more for what I can turn them into for the sake of the tale than for them.
It’s not like I sent him what I wrote. Maybe I should have. I never sent him any words of mine. He sent me his. I never provided him with true intimacy. He can say he met me and went on without ever knowing me. How he kept coming back was puzzling to me.
Had I sent him my words he would have read right through me and realized I was never worthy of his affection, for I could never claim it or even return it. It all went to waste.
I’m sorry I couldn’t let him know sooner how incapable of loving him I was. I’m sorry I allowed him to be vulnerable when I couldn’t even be honest. I’m sorry I’ve let him write to me, talk about me to his friends, paint a picture for a near future, when I knew damn well enough my interest was brief and he wouldn’t have my attention for long. I’m sorry I’ve done it more than once and I’m terrible sorry because I know I’ll do it again.
At last, I’m sorry this is more about me that it was ever about you. In all fairness, at least you can’t say I’m not consistent.