i memorized your number. wrote it down over and over, on a scrap of paper. and now here i am, after what feels like forever. because i’ve always been scared of phone calls. but i’m trying to get better.
so if you could just whisper sweet nothings into my ear. tell me it’s all going to be all right. tell me no one is going to hurt me, so long as i don’t put up a fight.
because i gave this old hunk of metal all the hope i had left in me. scavenged from the remains; and pressed the numbers gently.
but in all honesty, i don’t know if i can be any stronger. as i march across this wasteland, where every day feels longer, and longer.
and every story has to end, right? eventually. but this won’t be it. it can’t be. because all i need you to do is to pick up your goddamn phone, like you promised me...
I’m going to be really honest with you here: of late, it’s been really hard not to feel… lonely. Really, really lonely. So many people I’ve come to depend on just simply aren’t there right now, and that hurts. Things are changing, and with school going back in a week, it just sorta slammed into me, the other day.
How all the things I take for-granted could be taken away in a moment. I feel like a little kid, all over again. And suddenly, I remember what it felt like to do that thing that little kids do, when you don’t want your mom or dad to leave, so you kind of cling to their leg like a little monkey, and sit on their foot so they can’t walk without you, because back then the idea of spending eight hours alone in my room while my mom was at work was the most horrific thing in the world.
I used to have pretty bad separation anxiety, when I was a kid. I didn’t really get over it until I was around eleven or so. And then, I guess, I went to school. I made friends–and figured out that there was a world outside of my parents. Learned to keep myself busy, during the long days stuck at home while my mom was at work–took up writing, learned to cook, read books and watched movies… buried that fear deep down, where I would no longer have to deal with it.
But it’s just been coming back to me, of late. Maybe that’s why I’ve been having so much trouble writing. Because writing means being alone. For me, writing has always meant being alone. Meant sitting down at my desk, closing the door to my bedroom, cracking open a window, maybe putting on some music. Opening a word processor. And facing my demons head on.
Which is a lot. It’s exhausting and overwhelming, and… sometimes, I just don’t want to think about any of this.
Lots of love,