Letters to Strangers
To you, yes, you.
Sometimes you have to start all over. Sometimes you have to just forget what you were doing, throw it to the side, and clean it up when you've done it right some other way and you're feeling better. I hate the summer here.
My bed always feels so empty. My head always feels like cracking.
I shook out my blankets, threw them on the ground. They stung with the wake of poison oak, a broken frame, and too many uncomfortable, dense nights all alone. Everything feels too hot, but at least everything seems alright.
I still don't know what's wrong. Somehow I intend to find it.
The feeling of being so close to tears that someone just asking, "Are you okay?" sends you over the edge, it's not pleasant. The feeling of being nauseous and overwhelmed, the feeling of trying to get it all back. I've stressed myself to the point of near-death and yet, still, I can't seem to let myself stand down and nurse myself back to health.
The necessity to step down doesn't want to present itself. You told me like this, yes, "I love the way you won't let yourself be the victim." How come I know exactly what you mean?
I will take the fall. Yes, it was me all along. Of course it was my fault.
You didn't let me. Why can't you let me slide with, "I don't know, it's just -" and make it easy? Why do you have to be so good to me? We know. We worry, we get sick to our stomachs, we get no sleep, it's what we are. We cannot help it. We are diseased, disheveled, dismembered. I can't figure anything out. I itch like a motherfucker.
I wonder if you'll ever read these.
I wonder if I'll ever ease up and let you.
Isn't it strange that, despite the fact I love you, you're still a stranger?
Stumble!