A love letter to myself

My darling, my love. I don’t know quite who you are. I’m partly speaking to myself. All the self’s that I’ve left behind. The self’s that seeped into the ones I’ve loved. I’m also partly talking to the potential. The forevers and the always that were promised. My darling, my love. You are cruel. You taunt a secret part of me that lingered on every kiss and every warm word spoken with hope in my heart. A unrequited love with myself. The cruelest kind of seemly never ending torture. Never satisfied. Never whole again. My darling, my love. My weary eyes weep without shedding tears searching for you in the crowded eyes of ‘the one.’ They look to me with hope of mystery, although my secrets have all been shared. Laid flat, to be read and interpreted like cards on a table. Alas, it’s a bluff by a player of the game. My darling, my love. This is your doing. Even my most sincere words are made a mockery of. The truth became a fluid concept when promises of my own character were put into question and broken. The physical motives and behaviours of most hold little value to me. Concepts of the mind are formed to be saved, scorned and judged upon. Like me. My darling, my love. Like me. A concept in my only shameful form. It’s all I see, all I feel, all I can really understand, and, most importantly, all I value. In myself and others. I don’t expect lies. My bones echo with the hurt I have spoken about myself. It’s in me. Unlike a cancer, it grows with a motivation I present. And not by its own accord. A heavy weight, like the weight I casually despise myself for. My darling, my love. This can not go on. This hurt can not be maintained without commitment. A commitment, my darling, my love, that should be focused elsewhere.


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