I'm named after a flower. I told you that once and you asked me if I was lying just because you'd never known that heather was a flower. I'm named after a flower and sometimes I hate it. No one remembers that yes, heather is a fucking flower. No one remembers it because there are worse flowers to be named after. Sometimes I wish I was named after one of those worse flowers just so people would remember my name.
And I used to have a boyfriend who I broke up with because I didn't understand myself enough to love him the way he needed. He doesn't like being alive and sometimes neither do I. When we drive, we grip the steering wheel harder than we should because we know if we don't, we'll let it slip from our fingers and we'll cease to exist. But I make him smile more than he ever has in his life and I hope that means something. It hardly meant anything to you, and I'm not over that, nor will I ever be, because yes, I hold grudges sometimes.
And yeah, I'm still hurt by what she did to me, even though she was my best friend. I'm still hurt by the words, "I was using you" and "I actually hate you". I'll never forgive her for that, ever, because that's made me jaded and even though I know my soul will always ache, I'm still there for her. I still fucking care about her life and her problems. She has more anxiety in her entire body than you do in one finger and you know, I've kept all her secrets. I've been so mad that I've almost told a lot, but I haven't. She once blew up at you, so you know all about that, too. You know how she can get set off and I goddamn hope he treats her right because sometimes I really think he might be an asshole and I could be so much better for her if I were able.
And once you asked me if I ever thought about getting therapy. But what could a therapist do with my easy smiles and bigger laugh? I love to laugh and maybe you don't get that. How someone could be so angry and sad inside but still laugh like the world is the greatest place. Maybe it's because I don't watch the news. And I know that maybe someday I'll have to watch the news because I'm adult, but forgive me if I'm not sure I'll ever be ready to "grow up".
And my best friend left me for a mission and while I love him I hate him for leaving me. Because we built blanket forts and watched Pokemon and kissed once during truth or dare, and here's a secret, I love him. I really, really love him but we'd never be good that way. Maybe it's because he's my best friend or maybe it's because he's never loved me or maybe it's because I love too many people. I love that boy with his red hair and his glasses and his freckles and he has no idea that I exist, and I love that boy's words even when they're so sad and torn up and all about another girl who I'll never get to meet, and I love that boy from Florida who made me easy smile and who will never think of me like that, and I love that boy from Scotland who I'll never see but has the most beautiful eyes in the world, and I love that boy who talks a bit like he's from the south but only smiles when I laugh, and I love that boy who walks too much on the beach and hates himself even though he's one of the nicest people I know, and I love that boy with the curly hair and the messy room, and I love that boy with his freckles and his substance abuse with the universe in his head, and I love that boy with the piercing and the sly smile and the fear of heights, and I love your cousin because he's so dangerous and he told me I was the most important person alive.
And yeah, I love you. I love you probably more than you'll ever be able to comprehend and lots of these fucking stupid-ass letters have been to you, or about you, and I'll never get over you. I'll never be able to get over it, because you know, you didn't even say goodbye. But what's worse is you didn't even talk to me before you left. You wouldn't talk to me before you left, maybe because you thought it'd be too hard to leave after that or maybe just because you didn't want to know me anymore. You always said I had pretty eyes but you stopped saying it when I dyed my hair, and then you mostly just told me they looked sad. My eyes show when I'm smiling though, so most people don't notice, but somehow you did. I don't know how you always could see things like that. I broke down sobbing in front of you and there's only four people alive who can say that, yourself included. I think that night something inside you snapped and I scared you. I think I scared you because I couldn't tell you what I was crying so hard about but you made so many promises that you never meant to keep and you never will and now I wouldn't want them even if you suddenly wished to give them to me.
I've never hated writing so much as I do with these letters. Because they're more personal than anything I've ever written in my life, so it's like, here, take my fucking soul and see what it has to offer. But I'm sorry darling that I don't have much, because I still don't know what I want to be when I grow up. You'd tell me what to be and I'd know you were right because you were always more right about me than anyone else, myself included.
I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you I hate you I hate you, I hate you, I hateyou,Ihateyou, Ihate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, i hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you, I hate you , I hate you, I hate you, I hate you.
I'm a liar.
I'm a lucky bastard, because no matter what I do to fuck up my life, my parents have a "What we don't know doesn't hurt us policy" and somehow that just seems to fix most everything. It's taught me responsibility and how to keep secrets and when to tell just enough of the truth to keep someone from hating you. Even though all I want is for you to hate me, because you don't deserve anything else. I just want some other boy to love me. And you know, maybe I'll get one some day but for now, I get boys who makes me cry too much and smile too hard and like a lot of weird music. They talk about music they like though, and it reminds me of you and I hate that. Get the fuck out of my head, you bastard.
This letter is too damn long and it's too fucking late to be doing this, but what the hell, I never sleep anyway. I should be cleaning or I should be sneaking out or I should be doing something productive. But every time I think about everything I want to do in life it all comes back to you, and her, and you, and him, and dying, and breathing, and living, and I think I have heart problems because of you, but I can't blame my shaking or lung problems or stomach problems or eye problems or false pretenses or wrist problems or back problems on you because you know, you made me forget about a lot of those, except the head problems but you had those too, so it was fine. All I really want is someone to love me. But I'll never really get that, 'cause dear, fuck you and your victim complexes and these trust issues you've left me with. Maybe I'm drunk or maybe I'm just stupid because really, I've never had a drop of alcohol in my life, but trust me, I have enough books to satisfy admission to a rehab center. And someday I hope that boy who I could probably love but who I'll never have a chance with thinks of me. I hope he thinks about how I bite my nails and how I hate my name and how my heart's not even in my chest.
I hope you think about me like that, too. And that you remember, darling, that my spine is a tree and even though you're over six feet tall, it's bigger than you'll ever get to be, because dear, I've got aspirations and I'll show you more than just my middle finger. And someday I'll write a book and the dedication will be to you, fuck you very much, because you deserve it. Someday I'll commit arson and someday I'll get fucked and someday I'll make love and someday I'll have alcohol and someday I'll grab a boy's face to kiss him like I mean it and someday I'll get a lover who never lets go of my hand and someday I'll forget about you and someday I'll be able to be someone else's. And maybe then, once that's all done, I'll forget my own name because sometimes it really fucking sucks to be named after a flower.
Sincerely yours as always,
Blue
Whoa, Well said.
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