My Final Letter.

This is not really a story. It is an excerpt from a very long, and very personal, love letter that I wrote a long time ago.

I am tired. Tired of the mind games, tired of the emotional exhaustion that comes with constantly feeling so used and disposable. Because being with you is like living on a cliff, the highs reveal the most awe-inspiring, golden beauty, enough to make living seem worth pursuing, and yet that is not enough to upset the lows which plunge me into a painful dark abyss in which anxiety is my one companion and loneliness my occupation. Every second you are juxtaposing yourself, you are the ultimate oxymoron. There have been nights when I swear I could feel your palms caressing me, and there have been nights when I swear I could feel your fists bruising me. You said we were friends, but friends are supposed to mirror light off of each other; you are a dark abyss that swallows everything I cast. I feel addicted to you. I feel sick with my love. I know you in no way will ever reciprocate, and I know this makes you insufferably uncomfortable, however remind yourself that I don’t care. A hundred times I’ve told myself that I am nothing to you, and a hundred times I’ve sworn to never speak to you again. So why is it that a hundred times I’ve continued on instead? I love you far more than I like myself, and I’ve come to realize how dangerous that is. Creating someone else the pillar of your life, ensures that pillar will be made of sand I’ve been writing this for weeks; slowly adding to it daily like some disturbed version of The Notebook, a true testament to how malleable I am to you. Tell her she’s blessed with a curse. Tell her she’s both lucky and damned, because nothing about you is ever certain, nothing is ever stable. I love you so much it just turns to hate. The pathetic thing is that I truly do love you, I always will. I would have always been content to be, if not your lover or your sub at least your friend. I feel very empty without you, very grey. Constantly on the verge of tears. I feel as if I now live in purgatory, caught in limbo betwixt your good graces and your hatred, because with any ends worth gaining whatever is the point of arresting any stray second of your time for me? There is none. I am trying to heal, honestly I am. But the road to repair is speckled with mines and fraught with relapse.  Everytime I think of you it feels like my heart has fallen into the pit of my stomach and it is a feeling of loneliness and anger and sadness and betrayal all mixed together like one sour cocktail that is the poison running through my veins and I just want this feeling to go away but then I would be numb again since grey is all I ever feel in my no man’s land of a world. That is until you stepped into it and shocked me into colour, and your leaving drains me back down the spectrum to ebony. Today I found the strength to turn the leaden weight of my sorrow into white, gold anger. And that brief moment was the first time in months I have felt like I was not some rag doll to be thrown about by you. But alchemy has never worked and neither did this because within minutes I was back to feeling shell shocked and broken. Get out of my head and get out of my dreams. I sleep to escape the unbearable thought of you. It is pressure that pounds against my skull, it comes in waves; receding and progressing like the tide of the moon. And yet even in my dreams my subconscious insists on tormenting me because there you are: enticing and charming as always. I wake up sobbing and reaching for you, but all I find is empty space, both in my bed and in my heart. I hope she makes you happy, I know you do for her. But I honestly hope that every time you look at her your heart swells. I hope when you hold her you feel as if you are cradling the most precious gem in the universe. I hope whenever your phone rings and you look down to see her name in the contacts that your chest twists into a knot and your blood pumps through your veins so hard your arteries strain with the pressure because nothing excites you more than speaking with her. I hope every time you think of her that perfect crooked teeth smile of yours graces your features. I hope in this sick twisted hole of a world you find pure and unadulterated joy.