nastasha. 20. words are my cure. i'm just a bundle of love letters waiting to be found.
You crave the deepest connections with others, but you don’t trust to let anyone in.
The truth is that the more intimately you know someone, the more clearly you’ll see their flaws. That’s just the way it is. This is why marriages fail, why children are abandoned, why friendships don’t last. You might think you love someone until you see the way they act when they’re out of money or under pressure or hungry, for goodness’ sake. Love is something different. Love is choosing to serve someone and be with someone in spite of their filthy heart. Love is patient and kind, love is deliberate. Love is hard. Love is pain and sacrifice, it’s seeing the darkness in another person and defying the impulse to jump ship.
In time, the hurt began to fade and it was easier to just let it go. At least I thought it was. But in every boy I met in the next few years, I found myself looking for you, and when the feelings got too strong, I’d write you another letter. But I never sent them for fear of what I might find. By then, you’d gone on with your life and I didn’t want to think about you loving someone else. I wanted to remember us like we were that summer. I didn’t ever want to lose that.
note to self:
i. don’t trust boys at festivals,
they have hungry eyes and a wicked heart
ii. crying won’t help,
searching for sad poetry might
iii. don’t let him touch your skin
unless you still want his touch
in seven years, when that skin regrows
iv. you are not a thunderstorm,
you are a fucking hurricane
v. when your mother scratches at your wrists
and pulls your hair baby, bite your tongue
vi. you are not an apology,
do not treat yourself like one
vii. and for the love of god,
don’t let anybody else treat you like one;
it doesn’t matter if he has gentle eyes
viii. if it’s raining, run outside.