Dear Beloved

 "Food for the soul can never be poison"  ___Anon. 

Amore mio💗, 

I don't know the best memory of my life. Though I am full of memories, I cannot pick out the best one. My life is a mosaic of memories. I remember the time Mama cooked that chicken stew, and the broth was eaten with mashed potatoes. It was the first time I had tried them, and I remember the apprehension I felt (as with any new food) that I wasn't going to like it. I loved it. I remember that time I crawled into that mangled old  house through the kitchen window, cause I was so small, and I felt triumphant. No one could keep me out. Not even with a locked door. Ooh and that time when we were going for a school trip, and I had gotten so many snacks, I wondered how and with whom I was going to eat them. Perhaps it was when I was brought to literal tears after watching a movie or series that touched my soul, maybe it was the day we went for ice cream together, perhaps it was when I watched the serenity of the sunset alone, and I felt like I was a part of the great expanse that is the universe. Perhaps it was when I sat out at night, and watched the stars, hoping, longing, wanting, wishing, that you were looking at them too.  Spring was never waiting for us beloved, it ran one step ahead, always. 

Dear beloved, I am mending all my gashes. I keep thinking, this is the final blow. This is it. This is how we end, even before we have began. But it doesn't happen. So I mend, and the gouge tears immediately after. I look in the mirror and wonder what happened to me. I am not the same as I was when we met. I am a rebel. I am a defiant act of creation. The bright light in my eyes was extinguished. I exist. I exist. Are we not each other's  constants? Time and space may be, but for us, they could never compare right? Love, in itself, is innately unconditional. Is yours? Do you know what hurt the most? Seeing you put as much effort into others, and their well being, than you were me. It fucking hurt. Now hear me out, yeah? The reason why it hurts, is cause yet again, I was never the one. It's not the "cliché" "the one" but the one that gets the affection, the love. I got tired of all of my scheming, and suggesting things you'd never consider doing. Tired of  being the last choice. For once, I wanted to be chosen, over and over again. 

Dear beloved, the last time we talked, I told them I loved them. Both of them had the same reaction. They did not respond, they did not say it back. Two. Not one. Two. They did not say it back. I will stop, and conform to those masochists I hate so much, who  believe it is beneath them to express themselves, their thoughts and opinions are filthy, but I have decided to bend. Maybe I was too quick to judge (like all of you have judged me, harshly so) and they were/are on to something. Unlike them, mine is a response mechanism designed to keep my fragile little heart and soul safe. So, tucked away in some little corner, I'll be, until you come to me telling me you need me, and I will carry you so high, and drop you like a wrecking ball. Synthesizing: I was the common denominator. (A common denominator is one that you can reach by both denominators. Most of the time, the denominator of the second fraction is factored out, and this is done by just multiplying a well-chosen expression for 1). Clearly, I was the common denominator, and as such, the problem. 

Dear beloved, do you crave praise? Do you want him to keep whispering those sweet words? That you are worthy, that what you do inspires him, that you can do anything you want. Does it make you feel powerful? It isn't just a good feeling, a high that lasts for a moment. It is cognitively intense. He tells you, "Yes you can," and when you've done it you smile at each other and he says, "You see, nice and good!" "That's what you supposed to do!" You want to hear that intoxicating voice, the words are directed at you, only you. And there isn't a damn thing in the world you wouldn't give to have it. Thinking that someone else heard them in your stead gives you the ick. Jealousy gnaws at your insides, and it feels like a thief is dragging his jaggered knife through your colon. 

Dear beloved, if I told you I loved you, and that I craved your touch, your smile that brightens my days, that text that drowns out all the other noises around me, would you love me too? If I told you I wanted eternity in your presence, to love you and be loved by you, would you accept this love? Don't mind me, I am an emotional Chernobyl when it comes to you. Seriously though, I shan't tell you that I love you. It'll be my little secret, I'll take it to my grave, and when eternity comes and my bones return to dust, wherever I may be, I shall still love you. 

Amore mio💗, 

The dog is barking especially frantic tonight. Must be feeling my frustration. You're fighting too. Fighting so hard to be ranked a 4, yet you could easily be a 9. Wasted potential. I have experienced days upon days of sadness. Beloved, I know you. Anything that is emotionally dense is potent for you. Don't you ever think that real life happens somewhere else? We live life constantly trying to escape, escape reality, escape the self. Can you really escape the self? The mental diversion from "unpleasant" aspects of daily life. We drink, we smoke weed and cigar, we overeat, we attempt suicide. Love continues to be impossible because we use each other as a means of escapism. But why can you not escape the self? It is because you keep using people as verbal masturbation. Beauty truly lies in the eyes of the beer-holder. You're the reason why boyfriends are alcoholic. 

Beloved, I want to escape to a world where I feel alive. I have this existential dread that I am slipping away from myself, and I feel like I am dead (dying). I don't wanna dream about you anymore. But I will, if you let me, cause if I let myself, I am signing a death sentence. I left a door open for you, hoping you'd come (back), but knowing you never would. You're never going to cross that line, and I want to make myself understand. When was the last time you cried? Mine was January 6th, 2024, 2230hrs. I listened to fine line and I cried,(at the instrumental). I love artists. They have the ability/curse to describe the human experience- take it and make something eternal. If you're loved by an artist, you'd be eternal. Rightly so, I am averse to pathetic scenes on television, I try to make sense of a scene, an action, and sometimes it just doesn't fit. I am not sure I can finish it after that. I cringe when they turn a strong character weak, I hate it its so fckn unbearable. Maybe my life is a movie or a series, and now the architects of the script are making me mad. They're making you weak, they're making you loose me. 

There's a hop in your step. I notice. You're wearing black pants, and all can see the outline of your beautiful body as you walk. You put your hand in your hair and shake your messy dreads as you turn to me. Your top is coming undone by the wind. (God I want to touch you). Its burgundy😆. (Like the French one, yes. Famous for Burgundy wines as well as pinot noirs and Chardonnay, Chablis and Beaujolais. It is  studded with grand châteaux). I am asking you with my eyes to let me in, to tell me the secret, I need to know. There it is my love, the smell of bergamot and mint. Intoxicating. Lips begging to be kissed, and those eyes, gaddemit those eyes that saw me right to the core. 

You won't tell me anything. Nodus tollens hits me, I feel all the air rush out of my lungs. It's like I am going top down in that new Subaru. You have carried me pumpkin. I'll take your advice. I can smell black china tea now, its filling my senses. I want to be perfect now, like all your other friends. I'll be perfect my own way, yes I am raising issues. I can't be all things, to all men, at all times. I shall choose what I can be, and live in the knowledge of the previous statement. Beloved, will you look in the mirror with me? 

A.S.