Dear Mom and Dad,
do you know that game 36 questions to fall in love? It's a stupid thing based on pseudo science. 36 questions you pose to your partner and supposedly you're in love by the end of it. It doesn't really matter. What matters is one particular question that's been haunting me: If you could change a thing about your upbringing what would it be?
I've been pondering it for years. Gone back and forth on my answer. I'd thought: I would treat my children more equally, try to limit the favoritism and gender roles as much as possible. I'd thought: I would burden my children with less of my personal problems, not misuse insecure teenagers as my counslors as much. But recently I thought my answer would be: I would show more emotion, more love around the house.
Don't get me wrong. I've had a beautiful childhood. I've felt safe and secure at home. I always knew I could come to you with my problems. I would even call my childhood loving. You showed me love by fulfilling my wishes, by taking me places. And yet you've never once told me you loved me.
I can't even remember you told each other that you loved them.
And even now when I tell you I love you. There's this hesitation in your voice when you say "love you too". A small doubt that creeps up whenever you say it. As of you're not quite sure what love is. And maybe that is why I myself have such a fucked up relationship with love. Because not even my own parents seem to know whether they love their children or not.
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i wore makeup 'cause i thought i would be pretty to you
i changed the way i dressed and my style just for you
'cause then maybe you'd like me more if i fit in with you
you had a whole list of things you wanted to do
you told me all the things you wanted us to do
all the things you wanted me to do with you too
i tried so hard to be someone you would like and maybe love too
but even then that wasn't enough for you
...
i don't think you noticed the words that slipped out of your mouth
all the things you wanted and all the plans we talked about
were all the things you did with someone you loved before
and all the things you saw in me were what you saw in her too
i don't think you felt anything that you said you did before
all i was wasn't enough for you to not just see her too
...
i wrote a whole list of things i wanted to remember about you
i learned all your favorite things and went along with you
and when you told me all the things you were struggling with
i let you do what you needed and take what you wanted from me too
'cause i just wanted to be enough for you
i just wanted to be enough for you
...
i don't think you know how much i wished it was you
i don't think you know how much i wanted it to work with you
i don't think you know how much those 100 days broke my heart too
all i ever wanted was to be enough for you
but nothing i could do would be enough for you
and all i just wanted was to be enough for you
enough for you
...
enough for you // to people i liked when i was 18
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a home with you
When the sky starts to darken and the hue turned blue and purple,
So does my heart, brewing a concoction of fear, anxiety and loneliness
The way I can feel it shrinking with every minute pass
I wish the day would go a little bit slower, the earth would spinning just a little bit less
It's scary being alone, and its even scarier when you're used to not being alone
Sometimes I resent the way I feel when I'm with you
Content, happy and utterly blissful
Because when you're back, working, at the end of the world, and I'm back, studying, at the other end of the world
It felt like all of those fuzzy feelings was ripped out and burned to the ground
A cycle that kept repeating everytime you left
Well, not entirely true
I'm being a little bit dramatic to be honest, but my heart still hurt nonetheless
And maybe, today, it hurt a bit more
Cause I caught a glimpse of our future, and I can't help but think, oh how delightful it is when we're finally together at our home
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what we have is not love
What we have is not love.
People tell him, “You’ll move on, you’ll see.” But he knows he won’t. He knows that he can’t.
They say, “If you two are meant to be together, you will be.”
But we’re not. We’re horrible and we treated each other like shit, and maybe when we fuck it’s magical, but he doesn’t dwell on anything deeper than that.
We try and try again. We try to be functional, domesticated. But it doesn’t suit us. There were nights when we’d fight in the living room, screaming at each other. If he is drunk enough, he doesn’t bother showing restraint with me.
When we’re not together, it’s even worse. I shut him out completely. He tries to move on, dates a nice girl named Mary. She’s a goofball, keeps him on his toes, makes him wish that he was normal, that he was not fucked up. But he is, and when I found out he was dating someone, I showed up at his place, bleary-eyed, begging him to come back.
A week later he’s shoving me into a wall, pinning my arms back from smacking him again. When he crashes his mouth into mine, he can’t breathe.
Mary cries, tells him that he’s not who she thought he was, tells him that she believed he would never hurt her. He shrugs and tells her to fuck off before the guilt has a chance to set in.
“If you love me then just fucking say it,” his hand is gripping My neck, thumb pressed against my jaw. When I swallow he can feel it under his fingers. The tense, nervous movements.
“I don’t,” I choked out, my eyes fall to his lips cautiously. He will not kiss me.
“You’re a real treat, ya know that?” His hand glides from my shoulder and down to my hips.
“Stop,” I said softly, in a voice so unlike mine that it causes him to release his grip on me completely. My feet were flat on the ground for the first time in too long. A heavy silence settles over them and I said, “I can’t do this. It’s too hard.”
He feels like he’s been shoved backward. It’s perplexing to him, the way I talk like a victim. I have been destroying him since the first time we met.
“I thought this was what you wanted. I thought you liked us,” his hand gestures between us carefully, “liked this.”
I slumped down against the wall, hitting the floor gently.
My eyes were rimmed, red. I said, “Only because we don’t know anything else.”
He exhales. He pulls a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it promptly.
“So that’s it, then? It’s over this time. You can’t call me. You can’t show up at my place in the middle of the night. It’s over.”
What does she want? That’s what he asked himself as he stared at me. If he never saw me again, would it make things better? No more pain, no more torture. He wouldn’t have to be constantly reminded of the friend that he lost and the expectations that he’d never live up to. It would just be over. The feeling makes his skin crawl.
“That’s it then,” he whispers, and I bury my face in my hands. He can’t remember the last time he saw me cry like that.
So he walks away, leaves me sitting in the alley crying. He doesn’t look back.
What we have is not love.
That’s what he tells himself when he sees me standing in the tiny vintage banquet hall. The lighting is so dim that if he wasn’t searching me out, he might’ve missed me in a quick glance.
But he doesn’t.
It’s not as though he didn’t try to move on. He tried, probably harder than he’s ever tried at anything. But each time was a failure less crushing than the last. His heart was elsewhere. He knows now that he might never get it back.
There’s a song playing, all acoustic and soft and I stood by the bar with my glass of red wine, smiling. It had been two years since he’d seen me smile like that. The song isn’t his taste, but he approaches me, asks me for a dance.
My hesitation is expected, the slow and careful way I set down my glass and took his hand. He pulls me into his arms and a stand of brown hair falls in front of my face. He pushes it behind my ear with the little strength he can muster. My shoulders tense at the contact.
“I hoped you’d come,” he says, a smile as genuine as his words.
My head rests against his chest gently and I keep trying to blink away the moisture welling up in my eyes. He’d written a thousand endings in his head. This was never one of them. My hand moves to the back of his neck and he can feel the cool metal skate over his skin, torturing him.
The music keeps playing and My face is buried against his shirt, with tears pouring out of my eyes. It’s the worst pain, knowing that you would’ve done anything for someone, and that still not enough for them.
I looked up at him, “I did love you, you know.”
He lets out a breath
“I’m sorry,” he says, “for all of it.” He tries to smile but it’s strained-he cries.
So many moments flash through my head. I remember him, after Irina died, pushing me into Lake Michigan and telling me to “wake the fuck up.” I was furious, my clothing drenched. But I stormed off. I remember every single moment we spent together, the brittle, violent movements, always pushing each other’s limits. But I also remembered the silent simple ones. But most of all I remembered being in love with him, a feeling I’d never had before, the crushing bruises on my heart was leaving me dizzy and anxious and ecstatic all at the same time.
He would never feel any different.
He starts, lifting my chin to meet his eyes, “I’d do it all again. I would.”
I’m silent, he then says, “Look at us, we’re dancing again.”
I pushed myself to kiss him, then I did, he squeezed his eyes shut and put his hand on my neck
When I finally pulled back, my lips still inches away from his, I said, “I’d do it again too.”
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