My heart hurts.
Give me dreams with demons and murders and shadows that give me a fright and gore and fear.
But please make the ones where he doesn’t want me go back again.
A dream where you won’t touch me, not really, shouldn’t matter. The comfort you tried to give later shouldn’t get to me so. Pointing to a lovely house, though abandoned, you gave me a smile. “We’ll live there one day” was a promise, not just one line of words. A promise that we would fix it up and make it a home, our home, and the answer to every dream. “You seem to need the reassurance.”
That would be because you wouldn’t touch me as anything more than a toleration. Because in this dream world of mine, you still didn’t want me. I still wasn’t enough.
And I never, ever could be.
And I hate that I still want to be.
None of it means a damn thing. Give me killers and fear and no more of this emotional bullshit. A week of them is long enough.
More dreams.
I don’t know why they’re back. I don’t want them. The world can have them.
They don’t mean anything.
Even if I so desperately want them to.
I’m still clinging to an idea.
I miss you. Stupidly, foolishly, painfully, endlessly. I don’t need the reminders every morning.
I woke up with dreams that made me wish you loved me all over again.
I don’t know how to do this, even now, when it’s long past overdue.
I have the feeling I will always wake up wishing for you.Wishing I could be what you wanted, needed, longed for. Wishing for the impossible.
Wishing for you.
