Oh, Laura, on some days my scars seem to pile on each other so, I can’t breathe because they weigh down so heavy, I am stumbling beneath layers of suffocation that flex and bloom over me when I think of your laugh, your long fingers, your gravel voice. How I prayed for you, Laura. How I pitied you. Did you pray for me? Did you pity me?
I am awkward and heavy handed, my fingers are clumsy and my teeth sharp. I create and destroy in my own little world. I build things up and tear them down in my mind in an instant. I’ll raze whole planets in a minute. I’m developing a God complex as a result. I pretend that someone else’s tongue in my mouth will give me something to say. I break people in the process of trying to fix them. One day I will wake up and be surrounded by nothing but ash and the matchbox will be in my hand and the only thing I will have left to set ablaze will be myself. I am a little too much of everything, and that is why it is hard to be with me. I will stop expecting anything different.
Laura, I was prepared for everything with you. I was even prepared for you to leave. But I wasn’t prepared for how easily you did it.
For me, it was as simple as this. I wanted so badly to need someone, yet I could never get myself to do it. I wanted so badly for someone else to have what I was looking for, but even if they did, it wasn’t enough. No matter what I end up back here, leaning only on myself, finding no refuge from my own terrible embrace. Finding no escape from my own hard shoulder. You can get so used to anything that you can fall in love with it. And I fell in love, early on, with prison.