This is an open letter to all of those who don't understand what it means to be tortured by the very person you love
Dear Whoever You Are,
Humans get a sort of deranged pleasure in loving something that kills them. You see darling, each time i run back to him he sweeps me up in his arms and dips me in the forest we once knew so well in the small glow of the burnt out street lamps and sips up all my happiness just to leave my hollow bones and make the moon my perfect company. You see, it still troubles my vacant mind why I always charge back to him but i do it anyway and that, is the most agonizing part about loving someone who kills you.

You see
A person only truly falls in love
Once in their life time
And once that time is used up
There is no more.
You can lie to yourself
And to others
But if you were truly in love with them
That love cannot be undone.
I am in love.
A love that won't go away
With my best friend.
I fell off
The bridge of love
And into the waters
Where he followed
But his love came with strings attached
A bungee
And he jumped back up
And left me sitting there in the waters
While he's up on the bridge
Calling me up there
While I'm wishing him down here
And I have no bungee.

this is an open letter to anyone who has the audacity to try and love you like i did.

dear whateverthefuckyournameis,

i apologize in advance for spilling my boiled blood on the hem of your skirt. what you need to understand, is that you are standing on ground previously reserved for my feet, so forgive me for any bitterness that seeps through the cracks in my clenched fists. i don't hate you, but i can't be your friend. you probably don't know about me, and if you do, let me commend your bravery. i have a tendency to set my problems on fire, and in my bouts of anger everything looks flammable, especially girls with paper complexions. i'm sorry. i have never been one to walk away, so i don't know how to explain to you the holes in the bottoms of my shoes. but i have been further than you will ever go. this is not supposed to be an angry letter, but lately that's the only thing coming out of me. i don't even know your name but the thought of your hands reaching for him makes we want to break them. i will douse your dreams in gasoline and strike the match against your cheek. but i know that's not right, see, the poison crawling out from the end of my pen belongs to a scarier version of myself i try not to know. my heartache is an insatiable war cry in the dead of night, that will stop at nothing to shatter all your windows. it shames me to admit that i've found a sort of twisted satisfaction in using passive aggression to breach your armor. i am sick with missing a set of arms i was not privileged enough to know. i speak with all the grace of an atom bomb and wonder about the rubble at my feet. you are white picket fence and i am barbed wire. some girls are lions, some are lambs, and i learned to love, teeth bared and snarling. one of the only things that keeps me going is the hope that one day i'll learn how to love something without making it bleed. i may have never been his, but for a time he was mine, so please understand why i taste acid when i think about your mouth on his. again, i am sorry. i know it is not my place to be so full of resentment, but there is a part of me that sincerely hopes it bothers you to know he dreamt of me before you were even a thought. there is a side of me that thrives on the image of the color being drained from your face when you read this. but i am trying to learn how to be softer. this letter is the manifestation of a self-inflicted war that has been raging in my chest since he first told me about you. you will try to be good to him, and you might even succeed. if you ever find yourself singing him to sleep, like i did, don't ask if he wants to hear another song, just keep going until his breathing slows.

- m.f.

Some girls are lillys
waiting to be picked
some are roses
with one too many thorns
so you can't
even
touch them.

As i sit back and watch the openly wounded come back from the war of speaking to you, it makes the burning hunger in my heart more passionately unbearable. For a fleeting instant I was your's, and, for an even briefer moment you were mine. But you had an unendurable curious spirit that even i couldn't manage to capture the attention of for more than a rapid second. And that was tiringly back-breaking, so I stopped striving to be that one singular girl whom you kept around for a time. I stopped glancing around to survey if you were around when i was about to do something noteworthy. I stopped trying to keep the conversation going if it was veering towards a dead-end. I even stopped wearing my hair precisely the way you like it. But that undoubtedly didn't mean I still didn't thirst for your presence. That didn't mean I could deliberate with you about the very person i loved. In as much as, as laborious as this was to confess to you, I am still insanely in love with you.