8.

Dear Gillian,

I think I am too young to be this regretful.

You’d tell me I am being melodramatic, and quite possibly I am. But it feels like my whole being is full of heartache, pining after boys, looking for a body to cuddle to forget about my sadness. Oh Gillian, is it too much to ask for? Someone to love me back?

Gillian, I went and done it again. I like a boy. I thought he might like me, but I think I really misinterpreted everything. But why else would he say he would kiss me but didn’t because he is afraid? Why else would he sit and talk with me until morning light came? I’m trying to see how I could have gone so wrong. Gillian, for once I just want someone to love me back. So I don’t have to sit alone, questioning everything. The Barbican conservatory is so lovely and tranquil, and I can’t stop crying.

The feeling of being liked is so foreign to me.

Gillian, I thought he liked me so I liked him back, but it was all a joke and I feel like I’ve been trampled over.

***

Gillian, have you ever liked someone so much and have you ever been so heartbroken that you cried in a public place? I sat in the Barbican conservatory surrounded by beautiful flora, and I wrote the above as I contemplated life and felt sorry for myself. I had to stop because I started crying.

I don’t know why I am so heartbroken. Rejection has happened so many times that it’s familiar to me now. But what is new this time, was the tiny potential of being liked. Being on the opposite end of the situation is so foreign, even for a tiny flicker of a time, even if it wasn’t real. The mere thought of requited love was so exciting, I think I threw away all inhibition and went in head first.

Well regret is a thing that’s happening now. Regret and lots of angst.

***

It’s a day later, or maybe two. I am drunk and I am thinking about him. I wish I had enough courage to talk to him, ask him if he meant it. How can one person have such an effect on a whole other person? We are all just humans at the end, there is not a lot of difference between me and him but he has the power to make me shy when I have spent a large chunk of my life praising myself for being confident. How can one person, a person like any other, make me want to weep  but also write poetry celebrating the miracle of love? How is this possible? I don’t understand.

Oh Gillian, I am trying to deal with the bitter taste of rejection (I know my friends say it’s not for sure but I’m prepping for it anyway), and it’s mixed with the pungent smell of vodka. I know I have been through, and survived worst things, but it feels like this feeling of despair and bone aching loneliness is going to destroy me.

I want to sit in the Barbican conservatory and cry. At least when I was crying, I knew who I am and where I was and how I felt, but when I am drunk, I can’t control my thoughts and my inhibitions. I am overwhelmed with the urge to just hold his hand. I don’t like it when I think like this because I know I will wake up with the same urge, but without the vague veil of alcohol to mask it.

Gillian, I think earlier on he might have said he liked me. Like the actual words, but I’m not sure if I misheard him and he actually said ‘because I don’t like you’. He was really shy and queer about it, as he immediately followed with a sharp burst of ‘WHAT?’. I think I heard ‘because I like you’ but I don’t know if it’s just my mind playing dumb games, and I just want to go back to that cosy morning with his head on my shoulder and where I felt content with life.

***

It’s all over. In a moment of weird courage mixed in a lot of vodka, I asked him, and he said no. I expected this. I expected him to say it was all for jokes, it was all for the banter. Because it’s really funny to tell someone you want to kiss them right? Right?

I know I sound really bitter above, but I really am not if you can believe that. I am proud that I asked him, I am proud I uttered those words even though this is the outcome. I am glad I got that insane burst of bravery because otherwise, I would be sitting here hating myself. Despairing over the loss of another opportunity to get to the bottom of this.

And you know what? I have. And that’s all I wanted.

Best,
Annie

A.N.: Edited on 03/06/15 to correct drunk spelling, for the addition of the last section.

Lovesong of the Heartsick

Darling,

I am suddenly overwhelmed with the urge
to hold your hand, to intertwine your fingers
with mine so I can feel the heat simmer through my
bones to reignite the fire, to reignite us.

I have been so cold. I do not have enough fingers
and toes to tell you how much I have missed your warmth.
Years have flew by, sunsets have gone to waste
all for me to guide you back with my song.

I told myself it’s not good to think this way.
For you are so very far, and so very different
to the child I loved all those moons ago.
My first wander to you was deep and arduous,
and I can’t help but fall down these old grooves,
this worn road again back to you.

This is me hoping to see your face again,
hoping to bathe in your glow, hoping to
bring back the crinkles around your lips.
This is me hoping you might like me back.

Heat

I carved out a little piece of earth, and I called it ours.
I wanted to create serenity so you face
comfort when you come home.
I was sure if I taped over the cracks in
the window, it would retain the pathetic
heat radiating from our simmering rage,
to last us through the winter.

Instead, we tore down the curtains,
smashed the frame to re-fracture the glass,
(the room was too warm anyway)
stubbed cigarettes on the fresh carpet,
had angry sex next to the blackened holes
we tried to drown our feelings in;
the foundation crumbling beneath us with every move.

This is the morning after the night before:
I am learning to mould my arm into
a template of your body, where you used to be,
for you to always be near even when
you only appear in the seconds between
sleep and consciousness.
I can’t recall the last time I felt warm.

The Shovel That Buried Me

You’re laughing with the ones you love
but it doesn’t quite feel the same.

Somehow, that light breeze took away
some fraction of spirit,
and left you with a frightening chill that shook
the very ground you stand on.

Maybe it’s the heaviness in your heart
that became too much,
or the sad truth of it all tattooed on your
lover’s face, unrecognisable under your touch.

I’m trying to understand how I am supposed
to feel grateful for life when all it’s ever
done is stood on shovel that buried me,
jumped on the dirt where I lay beneath,
while I smiled and prayed for better days