montholdcompositionbook

[montholdcompositionbook]

second entry revisited -- heartache, again

self control is like reigning in an unbroken horse.

you still, after all this time, have not reigned in that unbroken horse.

obviously it's hard. you're not a rancher, you're a just a person. you're a student, an academic--nothing more. there are no callouses on your hands from rope burns or scars across your legs from whipping leather. you couldn't reign in that unbroken horse even if it were your every dream to ever do so. you're a dancer, an actor. not a rancher.

and frankly, i don't know why i ever held the expectation that you could snare the beast.

i barely can. i'm an amateur equestrian with dreams of being a rodeo cowboy. but i'm still years and years away from that peak form, that incredible amount of strength and practice and prestige that it takes to control a wildly thrashing beast of burden.

but i can't be what you thrust your pain onto. i can hold your load or carry your burdens. you have a horse for that, even if it's unbroken.

i'm tired of talking to a wall. i'm tired of hearing "i'm sorry" and not what you're sorry for. i'm tired of taking pity on someone who clearly wants me to take pity on them, not someone who deserves to have pity taken on them.

i love you. i adore you. but i remember exactly why i didn't want to let myself love you. it's painful. you hurt me, day in and day out, constantly putting me in a position to nurse my own wounds and try to piece together my shortcomings with absolutely no help from you. you swing wildly with a kitchen knife, blame me for getting cut, then assure me that it truly wasn't my fault.

that contradiction--that's what gets me.

i am so tired, so exhausted, of being your babysitter. i am so done with being your therapist, your crutch, your goddamn punching bag. why do i, of all people, have to be the one you use as a dart board?

what did i do, angel?

i want to think that you love me. i want to believe that you love me. i want to never, ever doubt again that you love me beyond a shadow of a doubt and would never hurt me.

but i can't.

because you don't love me, do you?

you like the idea of me. you like having someone to listen to you, to love you, touch you, fuck you--not someone to love. you like having me, owning me. you don't like loving me.

i can't do this, angel.

i fear i'll end up on the other side of this mangled and bruised,

likely by the force of your unbroken horse.

second entry -- heartache

self control is like reigning in an unbroken horse.

i'm sure that comparison has been made before.

i say it now, though, while i'm enraptured by you and all that you are, because it seems you don't fare well with reigning that unbroken horse in. you haven't mastered the art of snaring the beast. i don't blame you, there isn't a soul in your life that could've possibly helped you. you didn't quite have "role-models."

fits of passion and anger are appropriate in private, when your voice can pierce through silence and not somebody else's eardrums. they're appropriate in private because i cannot hear the thump of frustrated fists on wood, like the ones i heard when i was too young to understand it. you are expressive, leo moon that you are, but this expression is probably better suited for you alone.

it hurts in a new way, now. it makes my stomach turn. i yearn for you to be mine but i know that i, in turn, cannot be yours. i am too afraid of your lack of control. i am too afraid of your passion.

that's not to say you are wrong for what you're feeling. that's not to say you shouldn't feel anger. that's not to say you are "evil" or "horrible" for feeling the way you do. in fact, you're not even those things for expressing your emotions the way that you did.

but it did scare me.

i don't like being scared.

i also know that i cannot reign in my unbroken horse and madly beating heart when i hear the sounds of my mother's fury. it doesn't matter who it comes from, where it comes from, or why it's there. i will make like a cat scared of its reflection and puff myself up, ready to snap right back at you.

you, someone i couldn't bare to hurt.

which is why my heart aches, and why we cannot be a we.

i will hurt you, one way or another, be it your flaws or mine.

[montholdcompositionbook]

fourth entry -- won over

the last time i looked at these journal entries, i saw that it had been about 71 days since i last wrote. both times i wrote, i wrote about you--you, who i've finally let in.

it took time, you know. if my heart had a door, i had not only boarded it up, but also plastered over it and tried to seal it shut permanently. i wanted to pretend as though there was no door at all, like there was no way for you to get in.

and you didn't get in. i opened the door for you.

it took a chisel, some elbow grease, and some patience, but i got it open. at times i felt like i was making a mistake. at times i wanted to stop and work backwards.

but i now know i did the right thing.

when i finally let you touch me, when i finally let you kiss me, i felt the last splinter of wood break away from my barrier. i let you in.

i don't like letting people in.

you said it yourself. i don't like opening up. it's something that's incredibly difficult and painful for me. it feels like moving your neck after sleeping on it funny--there's that searing, stiff sting that you can't get to go away, no matter how much you stretch.

but god, i want to open up. i want to pour every ounce of myself into you. i want to reopen every old wound; i want you to see my viscera; i want you to know i trust you and love you and want you to heal what so many others have destroyed.

i don't know why it took me so long to let you in. i guess i didn't really appreciate how good it feels to be loved. i didn't appreciate how good it feels to be loved by you.

i am terrified of you, for the record. i am maddened by my adoration and love of you, but i fear for my sanity at the same time. you're so much, all the time, but i would suffer at your feet just to feel your warm, loving touch on my neck.

your hands are my collar and my chokehold. you pull me close yet hurt me so. but i'd let you hurt me, over and over again, if it meant i still had your love.

who am i, helena? you, my demetrius? surely not.

i'm sure whomever is reading this is worried that i'm delusional and romanticizing something deeply toxic and abusive--i assure you, dear reader, i do know better. love is a twisted and dark thing for me, and in this love i feel safe and secure.

with that--

who am i, hermia? you, my lysander? yes, that's better. that's right.

i don't think i'd let you hurt me until i couldn't hurt anymore. you'd know you hurt me and immediately collapse in on yourself--you couldn't bare to hurt me, and i know that. that's why i'd let you do such a thing to me. i know you don't mean it.

i tell you this daily,

but i love you.

i'm no longer scared to admit that i'm smitten.

it feels better this way.

[montholdcompositionbook]

third entry -- sweet

is it sweet like the wafting smell of cookies in the mall?

is it the smell of a preteen's perfume, handpicked from a discount bin at bath and body works?

or is it sweet like decomposition, raw and sour just as much as it is floral?

am i sweet in the way that sweet things should be?

did you mean it?

am i sweet to you, love? i try to be sweet for you. i want to be sweet.

i will serve myself to you like cake on a platter. you can eat me alive for all i care, so long as i satiate you.

i hope i'm sweet enough.

god,

i hope i taste good.

[montholdcompositionbook]

second entry -- heartache

self control is like reigning in an unbroken horse.

i'm sure that comparison has been made before.

i say it now, though, while i'm enraptured by you and all that you are, because it seems you don't fare well with reigning that unbroken horse in. you haven't mastered the art of snaring the beast. i don't blame you, there isn't a soul in your life that could've possibly helped you. you didn't quite have "role-models."

fits of passion and anger are appropriate in private, when your voice can pierce through silence and not somebody else's eardrums. they're appropriate in private because i cannot hear the thump of frustrated fists on wood, like the ones i heard when i was too young to understand it. you are expressive, leo moon that you are, but this expression is probably better suited for you alone.

it hurts in a new way, now. it makes my stomach turn. i yearn for you to be mine but i know that i, in turn, cannot be yours. i am too afraid of your lack of control. i am too afraid of your passion.

that's not to say you are wrong for what you're feeling. that's not to say you shouldn't feel anger. that's not to say you are "evil" or "horrible" for feeling the way you do. in fact, you're not even those things for expressing your emotions the way that you did.

but it did scare me.

i don't like being scared.

i also know that i cannot reign in my unbroken horse and madly beating heart when i hear the sounds of my mother's fury. it doesn't matter who it comes from, where it comes from, or why it's there. i will make like a cat scared of its reflection and puff myself up, ready to snap right back at you.

you, someone i couldn't bare to hurt.

which is why my heart aches, and why we cannot be a we.

i will hurt you, one way or another, be it your flaws or mine.

[montholdcompositionbook]

first entry -- jealousy: derailed

there isn’t a better word for it.

it’s an anxious, helpless, lost feeling. it feels like a fish in a bowl that’s too small, bumping into the glass as it swims around aimlessly. it’s free floating, haunting, lingering--it only fades when i get distracted.

i check my phone, over and over and over again, yearning to be talked to, yearning to be included--and still no dice. i am only important to my own reflection, and even then my reflection seems bored. imagine that. even my own reflection doesn’t want to keep me company.

loneliness and jealousy are a perfect pair. they are bitter and cold, unrelenting and sharp; they dance around in my ribcage and make my ribs flutter with dread. they’re heavy, too, and i feel their full weight when i’m left behind.

left behind again, as i have been so many times, as though my name is only a convenient echo when people’s mouths get bored of boys and sports and their more important friends. as though my name is only important when someone needs a shoulder to cry on, or a ride to their next destination, or someone to rant to.

as though i am only important when i can be a commodity.

and then there’s bitterness, like what arises now, and bitterness seems to have a physical factor to it as well. i suppose it is called “bitterness” since a bitter bile rises up in my throat as my anger and anxiety intermingle. i didn’t set out to talk about why i was jealous to be needed, yet here i am, halfway through the page.

and when i get jealous, or whatever better word there might be for the sensation, i fall back on old coping mechanisms. there are so many, each one more unhealthy than the last, but they feel better than being rational and kind.

it’s a dog eat dog world, and most of my figure has been gnawed away. my teeth are decaying and my jaw is weak. i still bite anyway.

“it’s not that deep,”

“i didn’t mean to!”

“you’re overreacting,”

i’ve said those things before. i’ve said them to or about people that have been in my exact position. what goes around comes around, i guess. i think i should apologize to you, reader, whomever you are, and say sorry for that. even if i never said those things about you.

i didn’t set out to write about how much it hurts to be constantly left behind. i didn’t set out to write about being disregarded, forgotten, or rejected. i set out to write about someone in particular.

that someone turned around and forgot me, too.

just when i thought i was unforgettable.

i’m playing an endless cat and mouse game in my head, thinking of all the ways i’ll win you over, all the ways i’ll catch you, but it seems that all of my running in circles came up with nothing.

i don’t know what i was expecting, really. i should probably be more straightforward.

i’m jealous of everyone you’ve seen through a rose-colored lens. i’m jealous of everyone you’ve admired with butterflies in your chest. i’m jealous of the fact that i’m the support beam, the helper, the sidekick, and not the focus of your affections.

i deliver and i serve.

i do not love.

you crave attention, it’s all you want, yet my attention has never once been enough. i’m jealous of the ones who have been able to satiate you. i want to do that, too. i want to be enough.

enough for you, enough for them, enough for everyone. perfect in all the ways i need to be perfect, and flawed in all the ways i need to be flawed. i want to fit into everyone’s puzzle. i want to be what everyone needs.

i want to be what you need.

i know i couldn’t take it. i know i would get frustrated too easily. i know you, and i know that i would lose my shit if i was yours.

but i’d suck it up.

if i could just hear you say you love me.