I cry a lot around you. I don’t know why.
I once told someone she felt like home to me, but she didn’t; I wanted her to. I once told someone he felt like home to me, but then he programmed a robot-me, smothered me in my sleep, and worshipped the android.
I want to hold onto you, as you are now, because I fear something or someone will take you far from me. The idea of you being far from me, quite frequently, stabs my lungs and cripples me.
But then I spend actual, physical time with you, and you make me feel like Tyler in the breakdown of “Lane Boy” in the Twenty One Pilots music video.
Maybe I cry because I would fight the world for us, but I don’t know how. Maybe I cry because you feel like home and it scares the living shit out of me. Maybe I cry because no matter how much time I spend with you, I still can’t breathe whenever you’re not around. Maybe I cry because you treat me like a person, rather than a tool; a person, rather than a mirror; a person rather than reproductive organs.
I’m thousands of miles away, and I can’t breathe. You said missing you is good.
It’s not good. My heart, Boss. Do you hear it cracking? Can you hear bits of heart-flesh tearing apart, dissolving into a sludge and solidifying in my stomach?
I know you’re not perfect. You’ve already failed me. I just need you to be you, and for you to let me love you, even though it is intense, consuming, excessive, and all the other adjectives I’ve heard about it.
I’m glad you can handle it, because I can’t.
These three hundred words are useless; this is probably why I no longer write. I feel no better, and the privilege of being loved by you has made it evident that writing to relieve pain is ineffective.
With love (as if the very words, “With love,” held any power to make you feel the creature inside my chest), your Captain