love letters to myself
i love so much that it suffocates me. i treasure that which others are eager to forget. frequently, i am told it does not matter if others do not regard me the way i regard them. but still, i feel this aching, all too familiar pain, when i know i am feeling something only i feel. how much i wish i could take back the past, how much i wish i could extend an olive branch to everyone i meet, how much i wish i could reveal my heart to all, how much i wish to have them understand in that finite moment, the depths of which i truly want to love all who would be willing to look my way.
sometimes i wonder if ‘the one’ could ever show up for a girl like me, sensitive and fragile as she is, volatile with erratic bursts of emotion, so painfully sincere and true to herself that it scares those who once cared. i cannot help but feel as though there is nothing left for me to do but watch over everyone’s daily happenings, cherishing them in my heart, silently, in her lonesome, as i often find it is myself who i trust most with these heavy feelings, with these unrewarded, pointless emotions.
this winter is lonelier than my last, but i am slowly learning that it is ok if i am the only one who believes feelings such as these have any merit; i can find beauty in myself, and maybe in that way, it is ok if no ‘princess charming’ manages to find her way to me. i will write love letters addressed to myself.