(no subject)
And as I read and re-read your words, there are tears in my eyes, and I know the ache of which you speak. I never doubt that we are much the same, enjoying endlessly the little moments, aching for the possibilities, simultaneously loving and stretching our own hearts that we feared were to shallow to ever love truly. But here we are, so many miles and years down the highway of our lives, and we are still beating the path and breaking our ground with the hopes and dreams of scenery flying by.
And sometimes I fear that the words I write are true. That I am a selfish girl, that I take and take and wonder when it will be enough so that I can finally say when. But I never do. You could pour every word I ever imagined you saying into me, and I would still look like the desert land we drove through, barren and hard pressed, scratched by tumble weeds and dry fruitless trees. You could hold me in a bear hug and I would still fear the absence that I know is coming. I am unshakable in my want of love and by grasping so tightly, I push away what was once given freely. I never know when to say what is appropriate. I am not a social girl. I believe the words we toss around so easily and I crack under my own internal pressures. And yes, you can look at me and say you understand and quite possibly I would believe you, but you know, that it would never be enough. So, why bother?
In passing, I choked down poison that I thought would heal and instead added fire to the fuel of my lacking. I want so badly to be a strong and pretty girl, but I am not. There are parts of me so indescriably ugly that you would run if you knew the truth. And I would chase. Because that's what I do. And I would say I'm sorry, and pretend those parts of me did not exist, but that's like pretending the landscape will change with a drop of rain. But it won't. It will absorb that tiny little drop of water and everything will still be stark and lonely and ancient.
And sometimes I fear that the words I write are true. That I am a selfish girl, that I take and take and wonder when it will be enough so that I can finally say when. But I never do. You could pour every word I ever imagined you saying into me, and I would still look like the desert land we drove through, barren and hard pressed, scratched by tumble weeds and dry fruitless trees. You could hold me in a bear hug and I would still fear the absence that I know is coming. I am unshakable in my want of love and by grasping so tightly, I push away what was once given freely. I never know when to say what is appropriate. I am not a social girl. I believe the words we toss around so easily and I crack under my own internal pressures. And yes, you can look at me and say you understand and quite possibly I would believe you, but you know, that it would never be enough. So, why bother?
In passing, I choked down poison that I thought would heal and instead added fire to the fuel of my lacking. I want so badly to be a strong and pretty girl, but I am not. There are parts of me so indescriably ugly that you would run if you knew the truth. And I would chase. Because that's what I do. And I would say I'm sorry, and pretend those parts of me did not exist, but that's like pretending the landscape will change with a drop of rain. But it won't. It will absorb that tiny little drop of water and everything will still be stark and lonely and ancient.