Longing – pressing, aching, all-consuming – picking into my bones, a ceaseless unrest beneath my skin. Longing – folding in on itself, hissing, ridiculous, cruel, soul-crushing weight. Longing – howling, sharp as a siren – sorrowful fictitious longing. It sears through me, hot and bright and endless, a sun inside my ribs. It is hunger without a mouth, thirst without a throat – a fevered need that mocks fulfillment – bottomless. It claws, and it mauls. It grasps onto my intestines, twisting them. I want to die in war – to be in motion. I want to feel like a picked, festering scab. I want my sweat to pour into my wounds and blood to fill my pores. Let me drown in myself – exposed and rotting. My brow becomes so saturated that my eyes sting with salt and my vision is dulled. Let my body betray me. I want to wander nomadically with a weapon and pursue a mission – driven, unrelenting, without rest. I want to pour my pain into others – until someone silences mine. It overflows, but it doesn’t silence the noise.

I cannot know what you are feeling – I can only guess at that. I’ve tried my best to be an open-book with you. But behind every conversation, every glance, there was always that distance – a subtle, quiet distrust you carried like a cloak. I mistook it for caution. I told myself you were just private, just guarded. – but I was happy to never push it. But now I wonder if that cloak was there because of me. I did try – I really tried. I held your silences without complaint. I filled the space between us with whatever light I could muster. This should be the part where I say that everything has been fine – it shows that I can live life without you. But none of that is true – for I’ve been nothing but honest with you since the moment we met. I think I am as lonely as you were when we first met. It really sucks – it’s cold, sterile, numb and muted, but you know that and that is what confuses me most. I am disposable. I sit with that thought far more than I should. I don’t enjoy writing like this – I have to write like this. They are the only thoughts I have. There is no catharsis in this pain. No resolution. Just static lingering. I love you. There is nothing naive in that. Good things don’t happen for me – I’ve accepted that. So I don’t expect anything to come of this. I don’t expect warmth or reply or even acknowledgment. This kind of vulnerability is disgusting.

Announcement! I’ve set up a github page for my little projects. More to come.