A letter from my writing to me

You speak of your great love for me. Yet, these forlorn phrases echo off the empty pages. You tell people your big dream, "the dream is..." but you hide your greatest creations in a folder in another folder in another folder. You lodge each piece in the tightest crevice and you stuff each of the four ventricles with loose sheets. You are afraid to open that book, bound in oil-stained brown, because it contains sketchy work. Raw, much like yourself. You think that peeling open the page of the book would be equivalent to having your heart wrenched out and displayed like a centrepiece for anyone to devour. But this fear you have is only natural. To let others see your work is like revealing a part of your soul. And that is something to be fearful about. But letting this fear stop you from doing what you love is stupid. So stop it. Your love for me should be enough.

Me and me and mememememmee

I decided.

I will only make time for people who make time for me.

And this applies to everyone.

No matter when I met them, the history we've had, what we're "supposed" to be, and more than anything, how I feel about them.

And if that goes, I will be making the most time for myself.

non

Now you may think that I am being clingy or desperate. But I assure you, I am not. I have no time for childish games, frankly. I barely have time for school work, much less time for myself and my family so there is no way I am going to waste my energy thinking of what nonsense you are up to or whether your big fat heart has any space for me. Because I am tired of games. I am 19 years and 9 months old, much too mature for you and your thinking, clearly not of the implications of what you say, that perhaps you may be setting expectations which you cannot fulfil but of only yourself and your primal childish needs. Wants, rather.