Father, don't go.
Mother, don't go.
Lover, don't go.

The moment he stopped looking at me as if I was something precious was not the moment my heart broke.

The moment she stopped waking me from sleep with a kiss to my forehead was not the moment my heart broke.

No, neither of these were the moment. I did break, yes, but I continued to move forward in increments.

When I gazed into the mirror and didn't recognize the face looking at back at me...

That was the moment.
I stroked a hand across the glass, touching the stranger's skin.
But that's all she was to me. A stranger.

Between cold sheets and two words that sound close to something like harsh wind, between loud bangs and flowing tears that will never end.

Between all of these things, I'm calling out to you.
Between these two worlds, this precipice, you still belong to me.

You belong to me. Where do you think you're going?

I'm tired of waiting -
waiting for the person who will take my hand when they see my downcast eyes and my bated breath.

I'm tired of waiting -
waiting for the person who will kiss me until I'm breathless, breathless with rebirth and filled with an ache for more.

I'm tired of waiting -
waiting for that person who will soothe the ache with three words.
I love you.

There's so much love that I have to give,
and the person I want to give it to most - isn't here.
I'm a patient person, I swear I am. But -
I don't want to spend my days and nights waiting anymore.

Dear lover,

There will be nights that you won't understand, nights where I'll only want to go to sleep and find comfort in the silence of a bedroom.
There will be mornings where you'll leave the bed before I do, mornings where I might not even get out of bed at all.

I want you to know that I'm still me -
I'm still the girl that begs you to leave the house at one in the morning for an adventure. I'm still the girl that will get out of bed first so that you'll find breakfast waiting for you in the kitchen.

I'll still love you if you don't get it.
More pathetically, I'll still love you if you leave.

I like to think that someone who truly understands won't leave in the first place -
but maybe that's just me being naive.
Every person that I've ever loved has left in the end, so who's to say that you won't pack your bag and quietly shut the door behind yourself when you go?

If you do, I want you to know that I'm sorry. This is who I am and I will never change. I can't change.

It flows in my blood and makes a home out of my heart -
it's something that takes the shape of a little girl who cannot stop crying for her parents. A little girl who wants someone to hold her more than anything, but not just any person.
It's something called loneliness.

I'll still love you if you go,
but I just might love you more if you decide to stay.

What do you do when the best part of you crumbles,
tears itself to shreds,
slams its palms on the table and says no more?

What do you do when you find yourself begging that piece of you to stay,
to please don't leave, I need you so I can breathe?

What do you do when that shard of you looks you in the eye,
presents you with a gaze that is nothing less of indifference,
and murmurs who are you?

You won't know what to say -
because the best part of me was always you,
and you have chosen to leave me over and over again.

There are variations in the way we enter this world, and how we come to understand what love is.
When you're born from tragedy, tragedy is the only thing you'll learn to love.

Does he really love you if he doesn't make you cry or turn away when you want to hold him?
Does she really love you if she doesn't leave in the middle of the night and never return in the morning?
Do they really love you if they don't force you to realize that you are all alone in this world, belonging to no one, and on your last few breaths?

Tragedy has a face, and it's a beautiful one.
It's worth falling in love with - it's a face that you'll see behind your eyelids regardless if the moon or the sun is outside your window.

It's a face that has brown eyes that can't seem to stop crying -
eyes that can't believe what they're witnessing.
It's a face with a parted mouth that can't seem to speak -
but if it could, its voice would resemble something close to broken glass.

Tragedy has a face that looks like mine -
and hasn't it been said that I'm supposed to love myself, to fall in love with who I am in order to heal?

I'll hold my face in my hands and try to stop crying,
to close my mouth and not allow anymore broken pleas to escape.
Tragedy is me and she's the only thing that will ever love me in return.

The feeling that seeps inside your bones when you wake up from a dream and don't remember anything, don't remember if it was good or bad -
that feeling is me.

When you're unsure if you're truly alone and you check every room for the heartbeat that is just out of earshot -
that heartbeat is mine.

Can't you feel me?

My hands have touched many souls, many heaving chests, many dripping eyes - but it was not of my own accord. Except for you. I've been waiting for you for many lifetimes.

In this life, I know what I need to do. My eyes were meant for seeing yours, my mouth crafted for saying your name, my hands shaped intricately so they can fit between another pair. Your hands.

These are the things I need to do, but you don't exist to me yet.

I'm the one that wakes up in the morning, eyes bleary with tears and the forgotten memory of someone whispering good-bye.
I'm the one that hears a distant rhythm and has to check every corner for the source, to no avail.  

I'm just a girl, waiting.
I'm just a girl, hopeful.
I'm just a girl, broken.
I'm just a girl, leaving.