dear self

in search of my box fan, i noticed a stack of high school yearbooks in my old closet at my parents' house this afternoon. when i opened my freshman yearbook from my california high school, a card dropped out from between some pages.

a cheesy black stallion in a meadow looked up at me, and my stomach sunk like someone pounded me through the floor and i plunked into the garage. but i opened the card anyway, recognized the handwriting immediately, and her salutation, "hey dork," caused me to hit the pause button.

i spent the last month wallowing over x's. i mean, it wasnt all that bad-- but really, wheres the "letter" to yourself, self?

and then there it was.

"youve been through a hell of a lot but there wasnt a time when you wouldnt help me." yes, the time an x needed a ride to the emergency room for an ear infection, or needed a place to stay between apartments, or needed my library card to rent a movie: i tried to be someone x could count on.

summer is so often the new start of the year for me. winter truly causes me to withdraw; summer begs to be experienced. "take some time out of your day and appreciate the little things that make you happy. there are lots, you just have to look for them." so what, x decided to knock up another girl; why must all the world fade to gray and splintered paths?

let me break here: sarah was my best friend for many years until she killed herself in 2001. she died on bad terms with me. like others and like x, she left me when i really needed her. but, she apparently really needed me and i was too proud and too stupid to provide her the forgiveness and compassion that she wanted. "i can only hope the rest of these precious years are good to you"-- this was the last birthday card she would ever give me before she took her life eight months and nineteen days later. she still loved me when she wrote this though; maybe thats what caused the last part to send me spiraling into oblivion:

"you are a strong person and i believe in you."

there. thats what i was hoping to achieve by writing to you, x. i wanted the affirmation that even though you careened through my life, i can still recover. but x severed my empathy and my desire for human connection rope.

and it took a dead girl's words for me to see the importance of working on that splice.

sarah, i have not said these words to you since you died: thank you. at the end of an emotionally taxing month with my blog challenge and working through mending a friendship with my best friend after you and during a rather painful separation from my actual, living sibling, "i love you like a sister" is just really, really what i needed to hear.

i wish i could make this shit up.

love,
a.

dear x: begin again

dear x,

i began my journey of over-sharing to determine if i am capable of feeling love. i knew by doing so that i would resurrect reserved memories and expose some of you in the process. while i will admit that my love letters were not as productive as i initially hoped, i am so overwhelmed with a range of emotions for you-- and for the future.

perhaps it is too easy to blame my unwillingness to open up to new potential x's because of you. you, x, after all, lied to me, said crushing things, changed your mind, and left me-- in some way-- alone. you have helped create this psyche, this outlook, this worth, this self,






until i realized it's time to take ownership of my past, and that means you, x. you happened. i will never be the same. but at the end of the day, or at the first morning yawn, you are stagnant; ever effacing; past. writing to you this month has brought me some closure by materializing (as much as an internet blog post can do) my feelings and allowing an audience to empathize with a rarely deeply discussed sector of my life, body, and mind.

thank you, dear readers, for working through my love letters with me; maybe you have reflected on what has brought you to this point in your own life-- and who you do and don't share those experiences with now.

i suppose what remains is acceptance. dear x, i know everything happens for a reason. i can't deny how empty i feel at times, as if my ribs are parentheses bearing a dull heart that pitters listlessly and patters unfulfilled. but capturing some of those moments with you in these entries lets me relive and acknowledge what once made me happy; and what is love if not to share joy with and for someone. while simply stating that i forgive you and you are eternally free from the prison of my darkened mind is just not possible, i do however, x, agree to start letting go.

of what was.


of what could have been.

and perhaps releasing the bitterness and sadness and jadedness will generate space for someone who will see the fingerprints you left on my heart but who will surprise me by sailing away with me on the tide that gently slips over those grooves-- dispersing your memories into the swells that carry us into the horizon, enchanted.

love,

a.







i almost brought him up

but you start to talk about the movies

that your family watches every single christmas

so i won't talk about that

for the first time

what's passed is

past

dear x: go your own way

dear x,

you know in movies when two lovers part and there's a slow motion shot of one of them walking away in the rain and the other squints through the raindrops and the walker turns around to see if lover is watching and they catch each others' backs instead? and you're like, why.

i wish we could have been so lucky. they at least had closure through the pleading stares and quivering mouths.

instead, there was.

and then there wasn't.

at least if i had that last glance out the window as you drove away, and you caught my parted lips and fingernail biting in your rearview mirror--

or listening to the soft pads of your footsteps in the linoleum hallway, and that hard lump in my throat grew tighter with the fading decrescendo of your steps and slight drag of your left foot--

instead, saying goodbye was like i dove underwater, distracted with sensory images and the rush of cool over my skin, as i looked up at you through the ripples; and as the light cut through the current, i watched your transient shape distort into nothing but crests and eddies upon surfacing. i took my first breath and broke at the empty silence of your absence.

this love letter asks you to find me, before someone else does. sometimes i forget that you don't know this, because you don't read my letters or listen to the song in my heart that hums against my ribcage every evening for you.

perhaps, given the opportunity, i would not greet you again, sweeping my dripping black hair from my eyes as i emerged from the water, reaching for your hand to pull me up, inhaling how your skin smells in sunlight--

because to say hello would only tempt another painful goodbye to your ghost.

love,
a.

tell me why

everything turned around

dear x: down

dear x,

you don't know this but i send you love letters every day:

in the dandelion puffs floating through the afternoon air, a secret wish attached to each brown seed.

with each brush stroke through my inky hair, taming the strands after their fiery dance with the dryer to look polished and smooth.

at the turn of each doorknob, a quick inhaled breath to hold back disappointment when i know you're not on the other side.

on the road, my bike tires hum with velocity-- calling out a gearsong, hoping you'll recognize its pattern and meet up after the next hill.

against flannel sheets at 3 am, my cheek brushes against cold pillow and i sigh with solitude and sleep.

between the tap of each keyboard character, my forefingers still remember tracing the moles on your back.

before i almost surrender to the silence of lacking emotions and feelings for anyone else, i mouth the words "i love you" silently, wondering if the tiniest motion of my lips will decorate the evening air, tiptoe in shadow to your end of the city, and come to rest upon your forehead-- so slightly you think perhaps a breeze snuck through your windowpanes.

love,
a.

i'll try to kiss you if you let me

this can't be the end

dear x: think of you

dear x,

one of my biggest fears is fading into middle age, mediocre and useless. i am terrified of the day when i will walk through a room unnoticed. they will find suitable replacements for my skills, and i will no longer be relevant.

i worry that i passed my prime. those years with you were the best; but, as fun and memorable as they were, what if that's as good as it gets for me? and worse, what if you have chosen to disown the shared experiences that shaped me-- forfeit any association with our past, our lovely little garden of travels and sunsets and handmade birthday cards and content routines?

because even more heartbreaking than being forgotten is to be acknowledged and then dismissed.

i am writing you this love letter, x, because it is time to confront my fears and appeal to your memory for the strength to mitigate my own chaos. you were always so good at sensing my impending storms and then forging blue skies and waterless rainbows for me-- you reacted so seamlessly that i didnt know i needed your barometer and a raincoat. i lived for so many years without lightning cracks or hurricane swells-- but what if being apart from you, x, for the rest of my life, means fading into gray-washed cloudless, breezeless mundaneness?

someday all they will hear is the sound of my shoes instead of turning their heads to see the tears in my eyes at the realization that the best is hard to forget.

love,
a.

just to put your mind at ease

you don't owe me anything

you paid me well in memories

dear x: use your love

dear x,

i am writing you this love letter because you deserve one. i met you at the worst yet perfect time-- for me. for eight months, i soaked my self-esteem with your admiration and never asked you to hold back. sometimes, i think karma is still raking away at my world for what i did-- or didn't-- feel for and say to you. but your niceness exhausted me. your compliments about my academic accomplishments or my hair accessories leached any available sentimentality out of my heart; i felt continuously taxed to return your praise and affection. so i did what i consider to be my second best skill: i shut down.

i can go on and on about the jerks i've met. you are not one of them-- not even close. you cooked me dinner with vegetables from your garden. you spent hours with me at the zoo so i could walk through the butterfly exhibit and painstakingly take photos of every. single. animal. you asked me thoughtful questions and listened to my answers. you embraced me so snugly, with seemingly endless arms and hands and wrists and biceps, that i think i know what it would be like to sleep next to an octopus. but i felt nothing for you. and you never asked or complained, which just made spending time at your mom's house or eating dinner with your roommate or watching you play with your chinchilla even more maddening for my heart.

dear x, you are the handsomest boy to ever don a suit vest with skinny jeans. but there's a difference between logic and feeling, reason and emotion, truth and love. someday i hope to pass by you relaxing on the patio of your favorite bistro, sitting across from a fashionable and intelligent heiress, dreaming up weekend adventures from books you've read with your hands entwined, like little cups holding sunsets and laughter from dances across your kitchen floor.

love,
a.

i'll tell you all my secrets if you stick around

the undercover lover's under the covers

dear x: sparks fly

dear x,

writing about you has allowed me to live in two separate worlds this month: the past and the present. i lived this once, love; and now, by smashing memories into typed characters i live again.

there are some experiences i would live over and over if i could. the problem lately is that i am distracted by your ghost in this room, therefore i fail to be present wholly anywhere, and i cheat myself of enjoying simplicity or complexity-- always wishing that you could be here too. so now my experiences are sort of halved, cheapened, incomplete.

i am writing you this love letter, x, to share these gigantic suitcases of memories that i lug with me, up stairs, in the rain, across states, outside your workplace, down the abyss that occupies so many of my solitary moments. wont you please take some baggage and unzip compartments and sort with me?

here, that shirt is from the first time i spent the night with you at your new house. we split a bottle of white zin, listened to music through your television, and actually said goodnight in person. you kissed my shoulder and whispered, "youre so cute" as i fell asleep and dreamed about fish.

oh look, i wore those earrings the night you told me you we could never just be friends. "you have bows in your ears," you said, as you played with my hair.

that, that is the perfume i bought a few days before you stayed at my place for a few weeks. spray it a bit; smelling it reminds me of sitting around my coffee table in the evenings watching archer and you said, "i usually cant be around people for very long, but i dont know. i like being with you." and then we talked about movies and i liked how your forearm felt under mine.

and then theres the empty suitcase. you found that. i bring that with me wherever i go, just in case you decide to come back. i can fill it with new memories. its silly, i knew youd think so. but its here, always, so that i can be ready.

im still here.

love,
a.

lead me up the staircase

won't you whisper soft and slow

i'm captivated by you, baby,

like a fireworks show

(absolutely love this cover of one of my swifty favorites)

dear x: animal

dear x,

so many of these stories take place in a bar or in a dark bedroom. this one begins in between.

i am writing you this love letter, x, because not many boys would walk miles with me, aimlessly strolling the sprinkler-flooded, unevenly patched streets of boise on an unusually warm may night. but you did, laughing at my awkward self-deprecating jabs and mild aversion to encountering midnight wildlife in your neighbor's garbage.

when i agreed to keep walking, you said, "but it's really far." as if my feet submitted to a curfew, a contrived limit, a sense of finality. i suppose, x, you didnt know that our stroll odometer measured arm brushes, how many times i could smell you in the evening air, and no yawns-- and not in kilometers or how many hours left until my alarm interrupted your embrace.

love,
a.

i'm not asleep

i'm up for the fight

into the magic

i don't want the concrete
i am alive comes with the tragic

dear x: back to black

dear x,

maybe it was the way you smiled under the parking lot lights. maybe it was the way you tucked me under a fleece blanket and kissed my nose. maybe it was the way you promised to be a safe spot for me to vent, to escape, to disappear.

but then you met her and all your warm comfort was replaced with disillusionment, like screaming in an empty room that doesn't echo.

you said i was pretty but she must be prettier.

you said i was smart but she must be smarter.

you said lying in bed with me was cozy but she must be the finest log cabin.

you said you were never going back to her but she must be capable of rewriting "the end" to "once upon a time."

you said you thought about me every day but she must be more enticing flesh and dreams.

you said i dont know how to let go of the past but she must be a beautiful present and future for you.

you said my skin was soft but she must make your fingertips tingle and sing.

you said nothing compares to me but she must be the immeasurably obvious choice, a crushing victor who has instilled a weighty insecurity in my mind-- can i look in the mirror and not wonder if it was my small hands, my short legs, my proclivity to doubt, my freckles that might have precluded me from tipping the scales?

you said i deserve the best but she must be settling for you then.

love,
a.

he left no time to regret

kept his dick wet

with his same old safe bet

dear x: the boy who blocked his own shot

dear x,

sometimes i wonder if you saw the sunset. maybe you watched the clouds around the sun fade from brilliant gold to murky lemonade to dark.

sometimes i wonder if your shoe caught on the edge too, where carpet meets linoleum in the airport terminal after the security checkpoint.

do you still eat taco bell at midnight? do you prefer mountain dew to dr. pepper? do you indulge in a few chocolate covered raisins, or have you deemed twix your favorite candy?

sometimes i wonder if you need me and then don't.

sometimes i wonder if you fill your hours distracting yourself from wanting to share little moments with me-- like we used to. i am terrified, x, of quietly losing small things to my memory. i will probably remember all the big milestones; but what about those collective fragments of time that just slip away, like shedding a strand of hair at the supermarket.

sometimes i think i smell you in the middle of the night. i am writing you this love letter, x, to let your shadow of love lost know this: i am often consumed by the details and my inability to share with you the simultaneously mundane and brilliant. i fear the day when i wont remember how your skin smells after a shower.

love,
a.

so get a grip

or call it quits

said you wanted a solution

you just wanted to be missed

dear x: come on get higher

dear x,

when people are in love, they celebrate their firsts: first date, first kiss, first house, first baby. when people like me lose people like you, they mourn their lasts:

the last time i heard you laugh, your cell phone rang and interrupted your piano playing (a rather melodramatic piece from the "lord of the rings" soundtrack). i heard you ask hello, followed by a brief silence, and then you erupted into a loud, resonating laughter. i am so glad, x, that that last hearty laugh was filled with your sincere happiness.

the last drink we shared together, you poured me a healthy glass of grape vodka over ice while you sipped on some gin. we sat on the old blue comforter from your bed and watched "little miss sunshine." the fan overhead rustled the living room curtains, and my cheeks flushed from the room heat and alcohol.

the last words you said to me directly were, "i am going home in a few days. but when i get back, don't be here." you banished me from our hallway, never again to watch your shadows dart under the door as you walked by in the morning. you didn't care where i slept at night, as long as our toothbrushes weren't stored together and i took my coffee table with me.

the last time we were in the same room, i attended a poetry reading at a wine shop after i graduated. you introduced the readers, speaking slowly and nervously into a microphone. your words sounded rehearsed as i feigned interest in a nebulous object slightly above your head. i resisted the urge to wonder when you had purchased the blue button down dress shirt that you wore that evening.

the last email you sent me was a department meeting announcement. i was just another cc, another itemized address on your list, another person you reached out to only to receive fewer replies than questions. reading your name at the bottom of a carefully worded form letter made me realize how foreign you were about to become-- we would exist separately, each like a chapter in different books on unrelated subjects resting on library shelves three thousand miles apart.

the last time that i will tell you that i loved you is here in this love letter, x. i loved you, i am certain. and i miss you-- so much that it hurts-- but you moved on and it's time for me to do the same. i wish you a lifetime of  encapsulated poetry, that each new first is an enchanting and inspiring moment for you.

because loving you was my last.

love,
a.

and i ache to remember

all the violent

sweet

perfect

words that you said

dear x: in pieces

dear x,

when i started this challenge, there were two very specific people for whom i would not write. let me make this clear: this is not a love letter because, honestly, i wish-- with everything i've known, do know, and will know-- that i had never met you and subsequently am repulsed by any memory of you.

but it took an episode of "glee" and a scene between quinn and shelby to procure some serious feels this morning that prompted me to reflect and share. i have spent the last few years in self-quarantine, because i am afraid of ever being stupid enough to allow myself to be glamoured into trusting someone as shallow and cruel as you. i let you bully me into considering that i was less of a person because i am not like every other girl you know; i'm not dependent or conventional--for better or worse-- and you continually suggested that i have been and always will be a disappointment to my family, friends, gender, race-- species-- because i say no to thunder.

you shoved me into a corner and expected me to fall in love with you. i didn't. you forced me to make choices and i truly believe i did the best i could. i made mistakes as a child, i was 23, and the secrets haunt me. i allowed your poisonous seeds to germinate and take root in my mind, now so deeply implanted in my own self-view and self-worth.

to dive into nothingness, into the abyss, into the recessive dark-- is to place myself into that wretched corner that i still struggle with. i tiptoe to it and curl into the fetal position. but it's time to recognize that letting go of the anger and shame is not the same as surrendering.

you are unforgivable.

but that doesn't mean i am.

without a trace of love,
a.

you wrap me in your arms

and chill me to the bone

dear x: little lion man

dear x,

i will probably never be happy.

but i know-- i know, x-- that i will never be happy without you. so just stop wasting our time and realize that you should be spending your afternoons with me, bound for the horizon and singing your favorite song against my neck. today was one of those perfect days that we will be nostalgic for, years from now; i'll show you the pictures of today's morning rainstorm and the spring afternoon sunshine and us holding hands under a cloudless evening sky.

the heartbreaking reality is, x, that this love letter is too late. we passed the point, so long ago now, of finding safety and comfort in each others' company. i know you're thinking of her. you know i'm remembering my world before you. but you know it's conceiving of a world without that makes me heavy with melancholy and blame.

love,
a.

i really fucked it up this time

didn't i, my dear?

dear x: i knew you were trouble

dear x,

i lied about pretty much everything. except my name. and that i live in boise. i am writing you this love letter to come clean.

i lied when i said i don't feel things. when you called me a sad little girl, the truth of your insult reverberated among my rib cage. when you threw your head back and laughed at my request for the truth about the thin blond hairs on your bathroom floor, my skull buzzed with nerves and rage.

i lied when i said that relationships are too much work. bad ones definitely are; i became sick with paranoia that you existed in a different world without me-- one with her. one where you talk about prufock & the scarlet letter with me-- and one where you fall asleep next to a girl who still posts pictures of you on facebook with clever captions and inside jokes.

i lied, x, about liking your paris hilton poem. i lied about finding your inability to choose a first name endearing. i lied about preferring to be alone-- i would have loved to feel your fingers tapping a beat to some indie song on my thigh as we watched a movie on my loveseat and drank JD straight from the bottle.

i lied about needing you. i lied when i implied "go away" was synonymous with "i don't care."

the tragedy of it all, x, is that i lied then and still think about it. but you, you lied then and lied so well that i can't tell the difference anymore between his sincerity and his omissions-- because you let me blur that line of reality for myself.

and i am so sorry.

or is that a lie too?

love,
a.

and the saddest fear comes creeping in

that you never loved me

or her

or anyone

or anything

dear x: you are my sunshine

dear x,

we sat around a bonfire pit: you held a bottle of gordon's and a menthol in one hand and i sat cross legged in a splintery wooden chair. the crackling dance of orange flames had already settled but the glowing embers still licked furiously at my cheeks and eyelashes. the night before, we tried holding hands on your couch "just to see" if either of us could feel anything other than apathy towards another person. we mutually postponed our conclusions.

i thought, maybe we should return to our discussion.

i inhaled; my exhales were staccato and hesitant.

i smelled my hair.

i inhaled again.

and then you started whistling. you licked your lips. the tone was shrill. i recognized the tune after you finished the second measure of the chorus. i watched your pursed lips as a smile formed at the edges of my mouth, so i fidgeted with the hem of my shorts.

"you are my sunshine," you started singing. "my only sunshine." you were not whistling anymore.

"don't," i teased.

"you make me happy when skies are gray."

"british or american spelling?"

"you'll never know just how much i--" you paused.

and waited.

i waited. heat rose to my cheeks, hotter than any sting from a fire.  love you, just say it, x. how much i love you, it's part of the song, it doesn't mean you actually do. do you?

"so american spelling?" i continued.

we never referred to that night again. to this day, x, i wonder why you chose that song, in that moment, for that reason, to break that particular silence. this love letter, x, finishes what you didn't say. you took my sunshine away when you failed to trust that i could possibly reciprocate your feelings-- familiar apathy or love. my skies may forever be gray,

because what is now just another night around a pit for you is a heartbreaking moment of regret for me.

love,
a.

nothing else could come between

but now you've left me to love another

you have shattered all of my dreams

dear x: holy ground

dear x,

you took me out dancing downtown. i wore a purple dress, and i watched you attach your cuff links while glancing back and forth between our reflections in your bathroom mirror.

i'll never forget how i felt when you smiled at me with your hand on my back and the occasional brush of our hips. i am a terrible dancer; you didn't seem to care, so i hardly recognized the giddiness in my own laugh. we ran into a few people that you knew, and you introduced me as "pretty andrea." i try to look pretty; i rarely feel pretty but that night was an exception. i kissed you hard on a red lips couch in the basement at grainey's and sincerely wished everyone in the city could bear witness to my excitement.

summer has a way of resetting my life. perhaps the longer days, dewy skin, shorter hemlines, and penchant for mojitos renew my faith in love-- because that june night with you still makes me blush and even writing you this love letter inspires me to spin around the room, reliving one of my happiest memories.

love,
a.

i guess we fell apart in the usual way

and the story's got dust on every page

but sometimes i wonder how you think about it now

i see your face in every crowd

(i cannot find any good youtube videos for this song and it makes me sad)

dear x: titanium

dear x,

at some point last spring, you saved me. maybe it was drinking all of my mini rum bottles that i bought in oregon after my grandmother's funeral and swaying on the sidewalks downtown. maybe it was taco night and tamarind margaritas at the matador. maybe it was the open invitation to crawl into your bed after dodging your apartment's particularly aggressive sprinklers so i wouldn't have to think about him-- or the lack of him.

i woke up once and you were reading a book about running. it was probably like 5 am and there you were chillin shirtless in bed and focused on the words in front of you. in spite of my sleepiness, i observed and appreciated the calm beauty there that morning with you before closing my eyes again.

we shared lots of smirks, jelly beans, stories of our exes, mountain dews, idle threats about jumping off bridges, and walks across campus in the dark. the nights spent sprawled on your couch or your roommate's bean bag chair (was it really necessary to curl up against you in a squishy chair in order to watch british "top gear"?) are welcome breaks from the silence, even though i still can't determine why i lack relationship-level feelings for you. i don't expect you to understand why, but i'm writing you this love letter to say i appreciate you.

and your warm bed.

love,
a.

ghost town and haunted love

dear x: lotus flower

dear x,

if he is the reason why i will never love another, then you are the reason why I will never love.

i have this recurring dream that is actually a memory from years ago. my body sat on the edge of your twin bed, but my mind swirled in past and possibility. you jerked me back to reality with a simple statement: "you look sad."

"i am sad," i whispered, to you and to me.

i am writing you this love letter, x, to tell you that you are not alone. when you enclose into the elliptical caress of your emotionless psyche, please know i too exist somewhere likely sucking my own metaphorical wounds. our monkeyrope is your attachment to my pain; you knew there were only so many times you could fuck me (over) and return to her the next morning, as if your guilt was worth more than my foolish hope. you knew there were only so many times, x, you could deny (knowing) me, as if your attractiveness depends on your dark solitude and not on my pathetic belief that you'll change. you knew there were only so many times you could wipe off my kiss before your own lips started to blur (partial) lies from (slanted) truth. you can tell them whatever you want; you're the one who doesn't sleep at night.

no, x, you are not alone. please know that you're not the only one who may be comfortable but not in love. because you have made it this way.

love,
a.

just to see what if

just to see what is

dear x: catalyst

dear x,

that afternoon on the swings, i reached for your hand and missed as you passed by me with your legs out-stretched and my hair stuck to my lips.

i tried to kick high enough to poke a hole in the damp, gray sky. we could have crawled inside and snuggled up against our own loneliness.

but i suppose then i would have missed what came next: you played the piano for me for the first time in the basement. i learned your eyes are green, not blue. i decided i wanted to hear your simple repetitive chords that sounded like wind chimes and heart patters every single day for the rest of my life.

i am writing you this love letter because i enjoy remembering how it all started instead of our eventual fated end. our hands missed for a reason, but that doesn't mean i regret our fingertips brushing.

love,
a.

you'll be the vein

you'll be the pain

you'll be the catalyst

dear x: nothing's gonna stop us now

dear x,

i almost called you the other night while i was driving home in the rain because you're always the first person i think of when i'm scared.

after the lab dedication for mary ellen, i really missed having people in my life that i admire and respect. when i was a student, i was constantly supported by positive people with similar goals and interests who encouraged me to develop my talents and be proud of my accomplishments. however, you were my biggest fan, for whatever reasons, and you believed in me so much that i didn't have to; i had no idea the immensity of your stability until you were gone.

i am so scared, x, that i will never be as great as you believed me to be. i am terrified of mediocrity, of being just good enough, of never being loved by anyone else because you were wrong and i suck. i broke up with you because ironically i chose love over friendship; i chose the possibility of greater things over actual contentedness; yet, i haven't even come remotely close to finding anyone that equals you. i do suck.

which is why i am writing you this love letter: once upon a time you loved me at my best, and i am thankful for all of the years you carried 95-lbs of me (and up to 120 when i was chunky monkey). before i met you, i ached for the day when i would meet someone that i trusted enough to love me as i loved him. and then i found you. and i am still so very happy that i did.

love,
a.

and if this world runs out of lovers,

we'll still have each other

state of grace

dear readers,

should any of you remain: hello.

i've spent the last year in self-afflicted mild isolation. with great space comes great reflection. one such realization that i've been trying to put into words is the lack of love in my heart.

i know it sounds super corny and somewhat plebeian of me to discuss something as paltry as love. especially here. but, my recent years have made a malcontent out of me and i am hard to impress these days. this last year, i have been called cold and heartless and the b-word more times than i would like to admit; such blatant accusations about my inability (or unwillingness) to reciprocate true feelings has prompted me to embark on a new blog challenge.

a series of love letters.

don't panic just yet. each post will be addressed to a nameless person from my past. while i would so love (ha) to fill this challenge with letters of adornment directed at chuck bass and darkside skittles, my primary aim is to celebrate actual life experiences and feelings with actual people that have affected me, even if we were never actually in love per se. each post will, in some way, provide a sense of closure for me-- which, let's face it, for me may just be reflection and projection.

as always, my lovely reader(s), i appreciate you working through this with me. your suggestions and support are always welcome.




affected,
a.

so you were never a saint

and we loved in shades of wrong

we learned to live with the pain, mosaic broken hearts,

but this love is brave and wild