Whoever is sitting on the other side of the screen, my heart is with you. Some part of you must feel in any way similar to the ashes my rest leaves behind every morning, hoping and wondering if today is the day sitting in the corner of my room holding my own hand will be the last.
If you read my words and inhale similarities. I write this for you.
Dear Reader.
To be lonely in a world where capitalism milks out every platonic glance into feeding broken souls like me into a fantasy that waiting is justification to having no one. My stomach hurts choking down words in a lifetime that doesn't believe I am deserving of love. I fall in love twice a day to words on a page while closing my eyes to the reality of unrequited bullshit that carves holes into my eyes each and every time I hear your name whispered in conspiracies. It's sickening, could anyone else survive it? Am I a rare being or just fucking alone. Always on the line between trusting the universe and cutting off my limbs to equate and validate the pain of not being the person he loves. Sometimes it's bigger than that, sometimes it's the moronic concept, the vile and wretched stench of watching everyone around you drowning in everything you've ever wanted and still complaining about a life I would sell my soul for. That might be selfish but when love is the only pathway you breathe for, and hope is the only thing sounding the alarm in the morning. I'm afraid one day I'll lose it, then who will I be if not with hope? Who will I be if not in love with you?
Love, me.
Please.
YOU ARE READING
Letters To The Lonely
Non-FictionPassages of vulnerability, to never be loved leaves a sickening taste in my mouth aching with words I will never be able to say. Can anyone here me? Can anyone stay awhile to speak the truth whispered under my bitterness for reality. Passages upda...
