Love is the slowest form of suicide. You made my day with your perfect golden smiles, melted away my rain clouds with just your presence, and you loved me. Just the thought still silences me with one of my own smiles. I couldn't believe, no, I still can't believe, that someone as glorious and perfect as you loved me, as is, damaged goods.
I still remember the first time you said that you loved me, though you probably don't remember, don't want to, and don't care. I asked if it was officially okay to say that I loved you, and your response was, "Well, I love you, so sure." That was an emotional high for me, knowing that you loved me. Knowing that someone who didn't have to love me loved me, as screwed in the head as I am.
I still have scars from when you left me, just days after you said that you loved me. They were what made me feel better, the bleeding. I knew I was still alive because of them, and not in Hell. They were and still are painful reminders of what was, and what won't ever be.
If you are reading this, you perfect angel, I've either given it to you and run away, or I've died and requested, no, demanded, that it be given to you. Honestly, I just don't care which one. I prefer the second, so I'll never feel the pain of your rejection, I'll never bleed anything but my love for you again, never feel your warm touch that makes my heart long for you, and then shatter, knowing that the longing is wasted affection that will never be returned. I'll never give you anything more than this letter, with my heart enclosed not in it, but with the person who tried to help me, who loved me more than you, but could never fix the fracture in my heart, and was ultimately never going to fill that space you took from me. And I'll never bleed anywhere else but into the paper that I'm writing on, struggling not to enclose a teardrop in it.
I know I probably look stupid, pouring the contents of my heart into the paper, bleeding my affection for you into it. I know this will probably go ignored, but at least I told you part of how I feel. Part.
Not even half of the loneliness, hurt, and love for you is reflected off of the blood on this.
I thought it wasn't love anymore, just a strong liking for you. But it's love reflected in the blood I've bled from my heart, not just a crush. I've almost moved on, but it's that part of me wishes for a happy ending, that didn't find us separated.
I smile at you daily, and yet I still find it funny. You know me so well, but you don't see the pain laying behind my smile, the cracking heart threatening to burst, that wanted me to give you some sign that . . . I love you, still. And you could never imagine the hurt I feel when you say you like my best friend, when you say you think my other friend over MySpace is hot.
Love is misery, pain, suicide. . .
And my heart still wants to give it to you. So as I end this letter, final punctuation, I'm ending my life, because I'm sealing it forever into this letter with a kiss.
Author's Note: This was really something I wrote for a boy, this is the raw material with only grammar edited. I put pen to paper and my heart bled through my fingertips and created heartfelt words. Let me know what you think in the BBS. . .