My head hurts

When I remembered something negative before, I would often make a finger gun, point it at my head, and shoot. Two fingers, mind you; I needed the extra caliber to get rid of those memories. Sometimes I'd spontaneously sing something, anything, loudly. They usually weren't actual songs. They were usually words involving people dying and not caring put to some impromptu tune. It was like my way of yelling at those memories to go away, for negativity to bother someone who was in so much deeper than me. There are people dying, and people who don't care for the world, and I'm being bothered by a failed choir solo? That wasn't worth it.

Then I guess this is worth it. When I think about how I broke up with you, I can't find my finger gun, and there's no tune from my throat. I guess there's a big difference between being embarrassed and that mistake, big enough that it's not worth even letting loose an imaginary bullet nor a singsong dismissal. Maybe it's because I only had one moment to ace that solo, but I have our entire lifetimes to make up for my selfishness. There's no way to redo that performance, but every single moment is one during which I could be with you somehow. Maybe it's the fact that nobody ever told me that my screwup in front of the mic mattered, as opposed to the fact that I know that I've scarred you.

After I shot or I sang, it'd be gone for a while. I'd be who I was again, and not that mistake. It's not like I can't tell myself that breaking up with you wasn't a mistake. I did that for two months. Then I realized how huge of a lie I'd given you and myself, that I could let you go. I am that mistake of ripping us apart. And when I try to lie to myself now, I get a headache. I can live with headaches just fine, but these headaches mean something. They mean that I'm trying to forget who I am. You'd think that the headache is all the negative feelings that I try to suppress, but I don't feel it that way. That headache is my positivity, the part of me that has become happy and loves life. It's struggling and fighting to keep me up, as if trying to be happy with that lie is like standing on my head.

You won't speak to me

If you say that, I'm going to die. Don't ever say it. Never.

I'd hung up on you. I was alone, except for having you in my heart. And if you'd said that... I didn't want to think about exactly what you were going to say. I could walk to the shore and swim out to the deep waters, then let myself sink downward. Make myself lose my breath. Make myself die.

I wanted to stay alive. I sent you text after text telling you that you're the only thing keeping me alive. No response. A picture, to show you that I was holding on. No response. Two messages each day to let you know that I hadn't died. People near you are telling me not to contact you at all, or they'll involve the law. People who can't seem choose between helping me to live and tearing me away from you. People who, when forced to take one, would choose my death. People I don't care about when the only person I care about is you.

The only thing that keeps me alive is knowing that you care. That's why I'm making this blog. I can't contact you at all. But I can leave these messages here and tell myself that you will read it some day. I can tell myself that for a month. For a year. For a decade. For a century. I'm going to talk to you here, clinging to the thought that you'll read it eventually. Hoping that you'll respond someday, hoping that you'll see me and hold me someday.

This is the life of a person who's fighting to live for love. This will be here for anyone to understand, to care, to relate. Even when doubt creeps in, I'll stay strong for you. Because I need to be with you again.