Things change so fast, so hard. I wanted a hand to hold in December. I wanted a shoulder to cry on. I wanted some sort of release or salvation from all of this. But this feels different. This pain is different. I’m not used to wanting to self destruct because I think it feels good. It’s this new, beautiful sensation, and my masochism provides me with it over and over and over again. I used to hurt myself because I had to, and now I want to, and the process seems a little in reverse. I like being alone.

But I would prefer to be alone with you. I just get so scared that I won’t be what you hoped or see now. It’s not self-derisive, not really. I change so rapidly, and I am so unstable that I feel if we lived together and spent a lot of time together, you will see someone you never knew. Never loved. And are scared of. I’ve cried — many times — at the thought of you coming home and having to call an ambulance on me. I’ve cried because I feel guilty. I feel guilty of something that hasn’t happened yet and something that happens all the time. I get so sad that I will tell you about my suicide attempts and my self-harm without realizing the sensitivity of it all. I love you. I am so scared to hurt you, and that’s why I’m not hiding from you. I pour my guts out to you in these letters, and I’m always so scared I’m scaring you away, and you’re too afraid of me to tell me. I’m intense. It’s no secret. I’m like a drink so strong no one wants to try it a second time. You have to understand, when people love me, they suffer for me. They hurt because of me just because I am so fiery and so emotional and no one can ever keep track of who I am.

New York is so distant to me. It’s so distant now, and I can’t hold onto it. White-knuckled and crying, and I can’t hold onto it. We can stay in my city (for a year or so). We planned that anyway. I’ll try to stay away from “but”s now, I’ve made so many mistakes in trying to prevent them. I don’t think I could handle a dog for a while. When I visited my dad, I banged my head into the wall with enough gusto I wouldn’t hear the barking anymore. We won’t get a cat, since you’re allergic. And birds don’t do well in apartments. Do you like turtles? or maybe we should get a ferret and name him Slinky. 

(Or angora rabbits named Moon Unit and Cloudmuffin.)

I’ve told you we will be together. I’ve told you we shouldn’t more often than not, but I told you we will be regardless. I should mean nothing to you. You should live your life — a better life — without me. (But) I love you, and you love me, and I’ll buy you bouquets of daffodils (aromantic bouquets of daffodils) and watch West Wing with you even though politics can make me really mad.

You have to promise me one thing though or this won’t work out at all.

Can you be honest with me? Like you were today. Tell me how you feel more often. What you want. What you need, what you’re looking forward to most. Please share everything with me like I share everything with you, even the grisly bits.

You’re my light.
My shadows, too.

You reminded me I’m human today and even though I didn’t like it, it opened me up a little. I’ve thought about deleting the previous letter, because it seemed to hurt you, but I’d like to keep it (if even on private) because it reminded me how honestly I still can love.