My apartment building is old and crumbling and the landlord is not kind. We live with light wallets and heavy hearts. It is too easy to leave us.

Give me life-bright girls and sweet, careful boys. The world will sharpen them, send them tumbling to my feet. I will invite them into my kitchen, my bedroom, and when they cut me I will bandage my hands and do it over the next day.

This wildfire-love, passion without trust, is the only thing I can find. It is the only thing I am offered as I live in a building of kindling and ash.

I think love that sparks and burns is overrated. Or dangerous. Fire kills people, destroys houses. I would rather have a friend than a pretty jar of ash. I would rather have a person to call home than butterflies in my stomach and bruises on my neck.

I would rather have a life to live than a story to tell.

or, on how habits are not so easy to break

The problem with knowing boys, I have discovered, is that no matter how much we may like each other, no matter how much we display it, I always feel like his dirty little secret. He kisses me before, and I taste dessert and honey. He kisses me after, and I taste ash and sin.

It does not matter if his eyes brim with hope or if he kisses me like his favorite sweet. It does not matter if he listens and responds and understands. The moment I invite him to my bed, I cannot think of him as anything but an invader.

I cannot do anything except surrender.

Dear you,

I wonder what you think of me.

I know that’s absurd—I’ve long stopped caring what people say about me. But I figured, after everything we’ve been through, that I can’t fault myself for curiosity.

Some days, I wake up feeling fine. I put on my favorite shirt (mine, not yours), buy a nice drink before work. Or, if it’s a weekend, I make brunch and hang out at the book club. I thought it’d be different going without you, but everyone’s still as nice as ever. I look fine to them, so they haven’t really brought you up except in passing. I still tense a little, but I suppose that’s to be expected.

Other times, usually when it’s raining—other times, I find myself alone in my apartment—the one you haven’t been to. I find myself thinking. If we still lived together, how would you make this tiny place your own? Would you put your souvenirs on display next to mine? I still have your seashell. If I set it next to my pen holder and squint—and this helps if it’s raining because the sky is darker, which makes everything a little blurrier—so if I put your seashell by the pen holder and tilt my head just so, I can almost imagine it.

And for a moment there, my apartments feels a tiny bit more familiar.

Is that love?

I know that unconditional love is loving someone in spite of their absurdity. I know that some people would prefer to find love in mutual flawlessness. Not me, and certainly not you. But that’s pretty much all I know. In the end, that’s how much anyone really knows how to say in words. They learn the rest through practice, through finding a home in each other.

Well, I can’t really do that anymore. So it’s just me, and my thoughts, and the afternoon rain.

It used to make me happy. Rain, I mean. You know that. Still does, in a way, but only after I’ve ripped my whole heart out. So there’s that.

Again. I wonder what you think of me. Sometimes, I want you to fondly reminisce of me like I do you. Sometimes, I want you to hate me, if only so you have the strength to move on. Romance novels would call that selfless, but to be honest on those days I don't feel anything except sorry for myself.

Other times, I want you to pine for me forever. Then I’ll see you at our bookshop that you don’t go to anymore, or maybe I’ll branch out and go to a few bars (unlikely), and we will fall into each other’s arms as we have before. This is selfish, if fun to think about; I would never want for it to happen in real life, though, because time and again the only thing I truly wish for is your happiness.

Is that love?

I don’t know.

Love,

Me

“Enough of this. What do you want from me?”

Eyes dark, captivating.

“Everything you’re willing to give.”

“And if I won’t give anything? What then?”

“Then you owe me nothing.”

"What's love," she says, pushing me against the wall, "If you can't do a single damned thing about it?"

She's kissing me now, and it's ferocious, devouring; even as I pull her closer, even after her name tumbles from my lips like an angel's whisper—even then, I can't help but want something soft, sweet.

Something that will last.

She is fire and brimstone while I am water and silk, but all the duality metaphors in the world can't hide the intrusive feeling that we are in truth unsuited for each other. Even so, I sometimes like to think that she is as tired of this game as I am. When her lips are on my neck and I'm looking at the ceiling, I like to think of our lives, our lives if we could live them together.

And then my throat closes and my stomach lurches and my vision blurs, so if her eyes are wet against my shirt, I don't notice at all.

#romance #angst #spilledink

i did what i had to do, but the gods will condemn me still. the ashes that are my parents' old house, pictures of my bruises, invisible scars. after all this time, they're still here.

i want to forget it all and live out my life with you. i want to lose myself in your kiss, to fall asleep in your arms. you would cherish me and show me what i missed while i was hidden behind locked doors and muffled screams.

truly, i don't deserve someone as good as you. you, who grew up with two loving sisters and a brother who could do anything. you, whose feelings i danced around until i collapsed. instead of leaving, you helped me up.

i've met them. your family, i mean. they welcomed me with open arms and open hearts, gave me shelter. i would like nothing more than to spend the rest of my days teaching your little sister how to play the piano, to read stories with you until sunrise, to laugh with you and your beautiful family. i am truly, irreversibly in love.

but one night, your sister—older sister, as the younger one was already asleep—told me about your sleepless nights and your brother's job, and how much it took you to get here.

and i love you too much to take that away.

so please, i beg of you, please move on. i can't taint you with my past. you are just so good, and i am beyond saving.

goodbye.

[draft deleted]