I miss you unfathomably and it’s making me ill.
The couple walking down the street holding hands can go fuck themselves. And if that makes me irrational and hostile, then fuck you too. Actually, double fuck you. Because everything is a reminder of what I can’t have, and I don’t see why I need to pretend that I’m not frustrated about it. I feel what I feel when I feel it, so fuck everything.
Pretending to be sweet is suffocating and I don’t have the time and energy for that sort of positivity. I want to scream and drown in my self-inflicted misery and, yes, I want you to bring me cake. But, no, I don’t have my fucking period. Say that again and watch me shove the phrase so far down your throat that you shit it out. That doesn’t even make any anatomical sense. Have you ever watched Two Girls One Cup? I’ll make you reenact that by yourself. It will be a cautionary tale of what happens when a male tells a female she is being irrationally hormonal.
That’s the thing about long-distance relationships; everyone tells you it’s going to be difficult, but no one tells you that you might go a little bat-shit-crazy. I was prepared for the pain of missing someone; I was also prepared for the bouts of loneliness, but this? I feel like a schizophrenic nutcase at a theme park and I don’t even know what that means.
Can I just say ‘fuck’ one more time? Fuck.
I really needed to let that out. Fuck.
How dare you make me feel feelings! Fuck you for these fucking feelings. What do I even do with feelings, can I sell them on ebay? WILL FEELINGS PAY MY RENT?! My bed sheets smell like you, my lips taste like you, my laugh sounds like you. All my time is eaten up by the collected memories of us sewn together. I get butterflies in my stomach and my heart skips a beat and, I mean, how fucking cliché is that? There’s another thing I hate; clichés and the way you make me smile. I hate that I need you in the way that I do. You are so much a part of me now that, even if you were to leave, I’d still find your eyelashes on my cheek or feel your lips at the back of my neck. I cannot make my body erase what I once told it to forget, and that is fucking frustrating. Because you have such a hold over me; I am helpless and hopeful in front of you.
I’m interchangeable. I’m the plaything you put up with; the mood swings and endless questions. I laugh too loud and pretend I’m not hurt when I am and I’m scared that one day you’ll look at me in the way I look at myself. How amusing it must be for you, to watch someone fall over themselves with uncertainty. Because I want and need you more than I can fathom and you couldn't possibly understand what it's like to love someone who is just waiting to leave. I'm bracing myself with my fingers crossed. There is simply no way I could've ended up this lucky, with you.
So I would kill to know that you miss me, but it’s okay if you don’t. We are opposites, after all.
All I want is to be a mess of woven limbs and dewy skin; to run my fingers through your hair and trace lazy circles across your back. I want to cook you a shitty dinner and watch as you try and pretend you like it. I want to laugh at that. I want to laugh at that and offer you seconds. I want to kiss you when I wake up, and again at 2pm, maybe 4pm too. I want to have sex on the floor, against the door, on your desk because, hey, I’m only human and I have needs that should be tended to, by you. I want, I want, I want. And fuck anyone who says that makes me needy. They can go choke on one.
And by ‘one’, I mean ‘a dick’. They can go choke on a dick.
That being said, I honestly didn’t need to write any of this, because all I really wanted to say was simply, “I wish you were here.”
But that would’ve been way too easy.