“A candle flickers violently just before it goes out.”
Eight pages of all the vitriol I could muster still wasn’t enough to kill my passion for you. I cried writing it, I cried the day after. Hell, I still cry. I haven’t really stopped. I gave up on mental gymnastry getting me anywhere with how I feel about you.
I gave up trying to fight how I feel about you.
I remember hearing something about Love and Hate being similar in that neither can exist without passion. There’s no hatred in me. The flames of passion still rage in my heart in your name. There’s still much to work on in terms of self-control for me. I lost control of my emotions, and the frustration and pain of a seemingly unrequited love manifested as anger.
There’s no energy in me to hate you; there’s no will to hate you.
I hate when I think of you it feels like someone is trying to rip my chest out. I hate the nights I can’t sleep because it feels like your ghost is in the room with me. I hate that you can still hold my heart so tightly, and yet seemingly think so little of me. I hate that there is nothing that doesn’t make me think of you.
I hate that I hear and see your bands everywhere. I hate that I can’t stop the tears when I look at the stars. I hate that I’ve associated countless flora and fauna with you. I hate that I’ve never once seen a firefly as long as I’ve lived here…until last week, walking down the road, by the bleachers. Those bleachers.
The bleachers I snubbed my last cigarette on, crying my eyes out, staring up at the moon.
The bleachers I broke my paraphernalia on (before throwing it in the trash, because kids and glass don’t mix).
The bleachers they didn’t replace when they renovated the playground and basketball court.
There’s nothing to make me hate you.
I don’t like my ‘new life’. I don’t much like my ‘new’ body. Clothes fit awkward with a new posture. I realized I like baggy clothes because I don’t like my body. I still don’t like it, even thinner, stronger.
It feels awkward feeling like the focus is on my chest. Maybe it’s just my perception.
I had a woman wolf-whistle at me a few weeks back, and it didn’t feel good or sexy. It just made me feel dirty. I guess squats work for everyone. I don’t want that attention though.
I win nothing. I lose more everyday.
I wish I didn’t love you. I wish this didn’t hurt the way it does. I wish I didn’t break down at the thought of you crying, of being in pain. I wish I didn’t care. But I do.
I won’t run from that anymore. I can’t run from myself anymore. I realize now there never was and never will be a going back to who I was. I realize there is no ‘freedom’ from what happened and how I feel. I realize throwing stones is child’s play.
I understand your anger. I should stop provoking it.
Clever Girl. I walked into all of your traps.
You had my phone number this whole time.
I knew it. <3
I’m sorry <3
7 Comments
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This is just so different to read something from a guys perspective. It sounds very much like the other side of my story. I hope things will get better for you.
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“Skinner”, “stronger”, “new life”, “new body”, good butt, “you had my phone number this whole time.”I think I’m paranoid but oh gosh you sound very much like my ex.
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@ J. – Thank you. One day at a time. This site and the comments have been a sort of therapy in a lot of ways.
@ Unknown – You never know. I’ve seen a fair share of letters that could have been written by my ex as well. I’ve tried to leave little clues here and there that would tip them off to my identity. One way to find out, right?
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I figured. I wrote a letter on here and purposely tried to leave little clues. Your clues match with my story. But from the guys perceptive. Strange, I think I’m paranoid but you could be my ex.
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Hmmm…does ‘Angel Soft’ hold any significance?
Ahh. It made me smile to think of the goofy things you can remember someone by.-
Soft does, he never used to word angel directly to me though. But soft, always.
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That’s sweet, but I’m not the one. ‘Angel Soft’ is a brand of toilet tissue here in the U.S. She used to say “You could give me Angel Soft, and as long as it was from you I’d love it.”
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