I'm taking it back

How many times do I have to let you break my heart before it finally sets it that you’ll never be mine again? How many knife-twisting words do I let you spew at me before I know when to walk away? How many times do I let you stand on your pedestal, making me feel so small? You act so high and mighty, as if you’ve got the whole world figured out. But you run away from your own feelings. If you have any to begin with.

I gave my heart to you. And you still have it. I want it back. You don’t deserve the responsibility to hold it in your hand. You don’t deserve its all encompassing warmth. You don’t deserve to feel any comfort from it ever again. You lost those privileges. And I want it back. Do not pretend that you’re a nice guy in all of this. You’re not. You have tortured me for far too long. And I’m done. I’m done with all of it. You can so easily walk away from me, so let’s see how it feels to watch me walk away.

I’ll be needing that heart back, so that I can give it to someone who deserves it, who understands the responsibility that comes with such a precious gift, someone who I can trust not to fuck it all up, someone who won’t disappoint me. You’re not that man. You’re just a child. A child who doesn’t know how to protect the most precious gift someone can give him. Maybe one day you’ll wake up and realize what you’ve done but most likely not. You’d be the dumbest man on earth to not admit to yourself that you lost the person who would have loved you with her last breath and that you drove her away.

Me? I can take pride in that I fought for you with every fiber of my being. But I can’t have you manhandling my heart any more. So I’m taking it back. You can go fuck yourself. 

10 things i hate about you

I love how hard-earned your smile is.

I love that, even though you hate your teeth, your hard-earned smile fills my heart with joy.

I love that you make up songs about my cats.

I love that you love my cats.

I love that you can’t walk in flip flops and you shuffle along like a little kid.

I love your bird beak.

I love the way you make me laugh.

I love your Robert De Niro mole.

I love how you lock eyes with me when you’re on stage, making me feel like I’m the only audience member that matters.

I love how obsessed you are with sweets.

I love how you smell.

I love that you like to take baths.

I love how we would spend Sunday mornings just lounging in the tub together.

I love that we can have telepathic conversations with merely a look.

I love the way your eyes sparkle when you make a joke.

I love how my body fits perfectly into the nook of your chest.

I love that we can talk about movies for hours.

I love your Usher slides.

I love dancing with you.  

I love how kissing you feels like home.

I love you. 

...

I hate you for leaving.

I jinxed myself!

Gah! I was going through old posts just now after I posted my recent blog in the long string of sad-sack blog posts, and I came across my contemplative NYE post about my 2009. Here's what I said:

"Even though I spent most of 2009 worrying about money, feeling lonely without a close group of friends, and regretting how much weight I put on, Greg and I got through everything pretty well, and I feel closer to and more in love with him than last year. I feel like there’s almost nothing we can’t get through—especially if he can put up with a gf who hasn’t had a full time job in almost a year.

There are definitely things I’d love to change right now, but I’m content. I love living alone, I love my relationship, and my cats are doing well. I’ve survived a hard year in one piece, and I haven’t lost my sense of humor in the process. Things can only get better in 2010, no? Knock on wood!"

I was in such a great place at the time. And I went and fucking jinxed it...

fireworks

I always tend to think of Fourth of July as "our" holiday because of our first vacation to San Fran during the patriotic holiday. We had so many firsts that trip. I first told you I loved you on the air mattress of your sister's swanky downtown loft. I had wanted it to be much smoother and find the perfect moment. Something romantic and sweet. I woke up that morning while you were still sleeping and tried to plan a perfect speech--a speech worthy of the way I felt about you. I wanted the moment to be special. But after you opened your eyes and we began to whisper intimately and joke with each other on that air mattress, the words just came pouring out. My best laid plans went out the window, and I couldn't keep my love for you to myself any longer. A few days later we watched fireworks over the bay on top of your sister's roof. It was just the two of us, seemingly alone in the world, cuddling on top of the chilly deck. As we stared out over the bay, we could see the fireworks in San Fran and beyond. We felt so connected and complete. Like we didn't need anything or anyone else. The real fireworks weren't overhead, they were on that rooftop. It was in that moment that I knew I would love you forever. And here I am, dreading the impending Fourth of July. Because I know I won't be holding your hand as we stare at the sky in wonder. I won't be kissing you under a lit horizon. But the fireworks are still there. And just like the first moment I told you I loved you, the words are just waiting to burst out of my chest, just like those fireworks bursting in the sky...

The pink elephant

Yes, I know I’m being all emo-y and shit. Whatever. Only one person actually reads this blog, so who cares…? Fuck it. I’ll post what I feel even if it makes people uncomfortable.

My heart is an empty vessel. What was once full of love and hope is now completely devoid of anything but despair. A part of me is missing, and I can’t get it back until you return to me. No matter what I do, I yearn for you. I yearn for your touch, your kiss, your embrace. I think of that night of my former roommate’s birthday party sometimes. As we were saying goodbye, you gently brushed my bangs out of my eyes. The touch was so innocent and kind, but it sent electricity soaring throughout my entire body. I miss that touch—the touch that lets me know I’m wanted, the touch that meant you were thinking about me.

I see you but completely without that touch, and it kills me. Every time I see you, I pinpoint the instances in which you would touch me without thought, whether I’m cooking dinner and you no longer wrap your arms around me from behind, or I’m greeting you and I’m unable to wrap my legs around your waist tightly while kissing your face, or the lack of a simple hand hold while browsing through the supermarket.

The absence of your touch is palpable for me. It’s like the pink elephant in the room that you so easily ignore but I cannot. It rears its ugly head at me from every turn and is daunting reminder that you are no longer mine—that I’m no longer allowed to touch you, that I can’t kiss your face at any moment, that we’re “just friends.” Instead, I’m stuck here, staring at that fucking pink elephant with its triumphant smirk, yearning to touch you and patiently hoping with every fiber of my being—my empty shell of a being…. 

I keep bleeding, I keep bleeding love...

I am a picker of scabs. I’m not sure why, but I always have to pick away at the wounds. Sometimes they aren’t ready to be fiddled with and will openly bleed, possibly setting the healing time back further. And yet, sometimes they are picked at the right moment, with healed skin underneath its scabby band-aid.

Our breakup is a scab I keep picking.

I keep picking away at it, in hopes that the wounds are healed underneath, but they never are. It just keeps bleeding, bleeding, bleeding. And it’s all my fault. Because I can’t stop picking at it. I can’t curb my expectations that this is all temporary. These are wounds that may never heal.  And I don’t know how much longer I can pick away at them, waiting for you.

Don't let me drown...

You once told me that you thought of our relationship as some long line I had committed to waiting in. That I knew it was useless—that I’d wait forever—that I should know when it was best to cut and run instead of waiting it out. I’m more patient than you give me credit for. To me, you weren’t just some line—some destination I was racing to get to. You were never the finish line or the prize. You were the journey I was always glad to embark on—that was never tedious or unexciting. You were my voyage of happiness. You still are. Although you may have given up on us and our ship is sinking, I’m still here—I’m still knee deep in the water, desperately trying to plug the holes and keep us afloat. I will cling onto us until I go down with the ship. And, even then, I will use hope—the hope of going on the journey with you again—the hope of feeling your breath on my neck once more—as my safety device.