A Letter To Everyone Who Can’T Love Me

I’m difficult to love, and, no, no, no, I’m not a far-fetched damsel in distress, or a romanticized tragedy I’m simply an emotional rollercoaster with a gripping intensity interspersed with awkward nothings and a fully gift-wrapped need to escape. I’m bad at small talk. I can’t remember the color of your car or the way to your house or what your dog had for dinner. I can’t go to beautiful places and remember to get you something from there. No, I’m not absent-minded or careless or detached. I simply can’t equate your personhood to the events of your day. I can just sit all day long, Looking at your puppy face, Making love to the subtle nuances of your existence, to the womb and the graveyard that your heart is. I want to sit with you away from everything The world wants us to be, I want to, Etch eternity on your tongue, bite your lips out of words you wanted to say but couldn’t. Love, When you find me lost, In the middle of a conversation with your friends, Do not move! Love, I'm not this world, And this world is not me, my imaginary world is the only world, where I can dance naked on the streets of New York, skydive from the Hilltop of expectations, make love to men who don’t remind me of their blood-stained hands and mouthfuls of cigar. You might be the center of my universe but I will visit it's periphery more often. Maybe because, My home is the tears that roll out of my eyes every time I know I changed someone’s life. My home is the fireworks in my thighs at strange conversations with strangers in strange cities. My home is the world of eternal possibilities, imagination, and love. Yes, I know I’m weird, perhaps unlikeable. These are the parts of me that have helped me stand still in the face of colossal storms that wrecked everything I once knew as home. Parts that have helped me pump lifeblood into hopeless souls. Parts that I embrace so wholeheartedly that they are no longer just parts but the whole of me. I don’t see how you can love me. But could you, oh you could, numb this over-thinking mind with your bruised hands, Build unshakeable fortresses on these sheaths I call my skin, Break this ribcage and reach out to my heart, melt into the nuances of my cranium, climb on the crevices of my back, explore parallel universes in my eyes, supply my veins and arteries with your lifeblood, Live like a warrior without a sword but with my heart clawed up in your insides, fill space in my soaked sheets, be my spotless shadow, rising with my yawn at dawn and settling onto my skin into the unexplored corners of the night. I’m sorry for unbecoming so many things that the world wanted me to be – for making a show out of my forbidden, terrifying parts. Forgive me for loving you so much that I mess up the only sweet things I know: my words. I’m sorry for not needing maps to know where I need to be. I’m sorry for having "unrealistic” worlds in my head and for making them real. I’m sorry for my perpetual strangeness, this abstraction, I'm sorry, for being so whole by myself that I might just scare you. I’m sorry, because I’m not sorry at all.