Dear boy

I'm tired. I'm tired of waking up with nothing to do but think of you. Dammit, I'm tired of looking at chat logs I've saved, pictures I've saved, texts I've saved. It's like you're gone, like you've died and you're not coming back, not ever. Why the hell am I still hopeful? It has been stated hundreds, even thousands of times that you won't come back. You can't be with me. I'm difficult, I know that. I don't even understand myself, not really, nor do I want to. You said to me once that you thought love wasn't ever giving up and always having more time, more patience. What happened? These questions don't help anything. They don't help me, you, friends, family. But I can't do anything else. I don't have anything else to do but sit and analyze every. fucking. thing. Play it out, day by day, noting the blog entry from the 26th, wondering how long you might have had it planned, or at least considered it. I anticipate our evening chats like no other, staying up later and later, past my mental capacity just to have your full attention. I want to shred everything you ever thought good of me, not be well-spoken, chop off all my hair, tan until I'm unrecognizable, develope insane acne all over.

Why is it so easy for everyone to leave. Am I really that grotesque? There are a hundred things I wanted to say to all of you. And none of you gave me a fucking chance. Too little patience, too little time. All I ever did was love every one of you, and you've all thrown it back in my face with a 'fuck you, you ruined us'. Whether it was my trust issues, jealousy when you were sleeping with another woman, my age... I told myself I wouldn't do this again. I fucking knew this would happen. I knew it when I watched, smiling at you from my living room window, your bouncing blonde head swirling around in confusion trying you figure out if you were on the right street, the right house. I knew it when I heard your voice, watched you smile, clutching a cigarette with the butt of it cut off in desperate attempt to make it burn when you inhaled. I knew it when I saw the planes of your chest under the thin fabric of your long-sleeved red shirt, with the hole in the elbow, when you did the cute, jumping around mud puddles to get the mangled cigarette you left in the car. I knew it when you offered your hand to help me up hills, never any more contact, just your hand clutching mine so I wouldn't slip, when you confronted my parents, even though it wasn't your responsibility.

It's all I can do not to shed a tear, not one more tear for that boy that I loved with everything I had in me. Not one more defiant act, nothing.

'Do you see that man, in the left hand corner, you see that woman? Their love stories famous.'