I should really let go.



The muscles of my hands are sore from holding yours. The searing pain of you blocking me at every turn must have caused it. The pain your gender generally brings me.


I feel it. I really feel this heart of mine and how it yearns. Even the thickest veins throb with the emotion, with the zeal with which I miss you.

You are running away from me, like a ship running from the tide. This scares you, I scare you. The feeling overwhelms you. I know this and my heart does too. But the strength I use to carry on with you is needed elsewhere. Feet that were once made to take me further, need the energy you take. The energy you leech on.


I miss the times we called or texted. I miss how we could chat or blabber. I miss when you reprimanded me.
I'm sorry for hurting you, but you have to understand. You were hurting me so. Much. Again.

Often my heart recalls the times it's been torn apart by you. It remembers the feel of your nails on the flesh, the force with which you clawed through it. The force you used to tear me and my heart in two. My heart howls when it remembers.
Still I like you and, God knows, you like me. But you will never see me, will you?

You want me to stay surreal, be something that borders on a safe haven and an illusion. You want me to be your tempest. To be the emotion you never portrayed, the yearn for knowledge you never knew. You want me to be your perfect puzzle, your perfect little Disaster in a bottle.


Well, guess what.
Being that hurts when you're not near me.

You consume my time on the phone but it hurts that you will never meet me. It hurts to know you like me but not that much. It hurts me to realize you are that far away and still there for me. It hurts, that you and him have seen me and deemed me unworthy.


It hurts.
And I should really let go.