loving you.

february 4 2014

The universe is tumbling down on me as we speak, into my hair. Onto my lashes. They mix with the small, heavy tears forming there and make them silent and invisible to everyone but you. Fuck. It's perfectly okay for you to know I cry sometimes, cause it's true and I do, but you knowing what induces silent and loud tears alike is not okay. I feel vulnerable, dependent on you to make everything better. I depend on you to complete me on the low. You still make me feel beautiful, down to my cracked nail polish, uneven eyebrows, blemishes and my lanky limbs. Maybe I'll get to thank you properly, let you take down my bobby pins one by one, but until then I'll be your friend.

- Jazz, but you know what you call me.

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Dear you,

With all the love poems and stories I read, all the love songs I listen to, you'd think I'd be better at writing sappy love stuff. You'd think. Think, think, think. That's all I do these days. My thoughts weigh me down at times, but you pull me back up. You. Everything you are, everything you do, every aspect of you is now grabbing me. You tug at my heartstrings, but when you ask, I tell you I'm just tired. Which isn't a lie, you know. Just emotionally tired.

And yet you're my own personal shot of ginseng. Oh, you.

I like to think everything has its own color to it, in a sense. Everything felt in everything deserves, at the bare minimum, its own color. This shit here is blue. Passion is cooled off and swallowed, then exchanged into plain happiness whenever you're near me, which is always. I feel totally blue when I realize I can't have you, so maybe that's it. Or maybe that in my daydreams, we're always engulfed in a blue that I can't explain, and the skies in them are always sunny. Sunny. And you know how cloudy I am.

At times I think everything that's happened in these past few months are all my fault, for allowing myself to get close to you and letting others see. Mercury and Venus are jealous, and Mars has grown cold as I'd felt it would. I just didn't expect for it to hurt me, burn me from the cold. Still, you were there to bear with me as everything came tumbling down. I feel like mixing our stars diminshed the shine from your own prior constellation, despite how many times you tell me that's not the case at all. I want to believe you, I honestly do, but I can't. Everything is my fault... sorry.

In front of you, I'm totally periwinkle. Soft, misleading, and everything it can't be yet is. In my mind though, it's all strawberry red. See, the strawberry red present is sorta pinkish from all the happiness, but it's red from how I'm feeling at the moment. Enamored, crazy, and furious if someone mistreats you, which happens often. How I wish I could channel all this red into my fists, but you said violence is never the answer. Besides, if something were to happen because of it, I'd be ripped away from you for a week or two, and I don't think I can go without feeling my heartbeat that long. I know I can't.

You know that everything I say, I mean. Words never tumble out of my brain without me ever meaning them, you know how I feel about pointless words. Yet here I am, rambling. I'm a walking paradox. A human who survived for so long without feeling a heartbeat until so recently. You've got a hold on me now, one that squeezed my heart and forced it to beat. It happily complies, so please don't let go. (Not like you know you've got it.) I'm not happily complying, but I'm not complaining. I just wish I didn't have to depend on you to make me feel again; why can't I do it for myself? What'll happen if you let me go, which will happen in time?

I'm such a mess, I swear. I don't know how you end up seeing me crystal clear though - you're magic within yourself. How you do everything you do, I'll never know. How is it that you're unhappy but are capable of making me feel like I'm on top of the cosmos? And how is it that you make me feel all these things, but you are also capable of making my own subconcious push them back? I want to solve you, to know you. You say I do, but I'm not satisfied until I know all of you. Your shape, your mind, everything down to those clammy hands. (Are they super soft? I like holding super soft hands.) I wanna know how hugs you initiate feel, but I won't allow myself that pleasure. I don't want to be an obvoious mess, not the one I hide behind my crappy wannabe-Rican hair and blemished gold skin. You can touch it, if you want.

You're the main person I'd like to impress, to dress up like a model for, yet you like me better in my sweats and Bearpaws wearing my hair however. It's because of this that you make me feel pretty, even if only for a millisecond.

What would you do if you saw this, since it's obvious who I'm speaking to? Would you carry on, pushing it all the way to the back of your mind like I do with these emotions? Would you just let me fall for you, and you do the same? Would you wake me up to paragraphs every day instead of every week, like you already do? Would you drop me? Would you comfort me? Would you reciprocate? Fuck, I told you that I don't really know you. But I do. I know what makes you laugh, what makes you mad, what foods you like, what you don't like, what to do to calm you down, what to do to bring you up out of that occasional sadness you get so that you don't ever feel like me, and what you're like. I'm your biggest fan, and I'm your godess. Key word yours.

I'm rambling on this since this is everything I could never say to you in person, and I probably won't. Be Your Girl by Teedra Moses is playing on my phone right now, you know- the fucking irony of it. I know you don't really know me, either - you won't. You won't ever know why I'm always listening to love songs, what stories I read on here, what I do when I'm sad (which is often), what really makes me sad, or anything that gives you too much of a look into me cause I think if you made it to the seventh circle of hell that is me, you'd quit. I think I'd prefer you quitting over friendzoning. Being my official everything and letting me claim you is cool, too.

How often do you think of me? Now and then? Just at school? When you listen to 'Her' and hear that beginning part about cheese at the store, remembering that ugly selfie of me posing in front of cheese I sent you just to make you laugh? (Oh, that laugh.)

Oh, that laugh.

Oh, that skin.

Oh, that walk.

Oh, that voice.

Oh, that hair (that you should let me play in while we're all hugged up [ha!]).

Oh, you.

Sincerely,

Jasmine Anise, AKA Butterscotch.