Letters to Strangers

No -

This is an empty page.
This is an empty page but I am littering it with words and thoughts.
I fucking cut myself on my jean pocket yesterday, right underneath my fingernail, and the only thing that keeps it from hurting is biting it.

Every word I say or see or type is one closer to the end, here, and my skin is red and itchy as usual. My throat aches from reciting, over and over, a speech that means absolutely nothing.

I hated you on Friday.
I loved you on Saturday.
And then I was confused.

I wish you weren't so awkwardly conservative. What if I wanted to have sex on the dance floor like everyone else? I keep telling you I want to be normal and I never get the chance to. I know I'm not, but just every once and awhile I need to be reckless, I need to not give a fuck, I need to let go, and you're not letting me. I can't get my head around this.

Dinner was delicious but I'm not sure the nausea was really worth the night, and the way you reacted to my reaction wasn't anything good. I can't tell which one of us was acting like a child.

OneTwoThree
OneTwoThree

I have twelve minutes for this fucking thing and I can't stand it.
Who puts a rubric on an experience? I can't say what I want to say because you want me to say something else. I want to light this fucking thing on fire. I feel vulgar and underwhelmed and my car is acting up again.

You made me want to drive fast and leave you there acting like nothing happened. You made me feel so fucking invalidated it wasn't even fair.
And then you made me want to stay in bed with you all morning, with the warmth of your skin and the lingering smell of peppermint.

I don't want to wake up until it's over.
I don't want to go to sleep until it's understood.
That way everything can boil and simmer and reduce into something simple and better and in the end we can leave it on the counter for someone else.

I hated you on Friday,
I loved you on Saturday.
And I am so confused.