Here I am, yet again, staring at this blank document and the easiest thing is to write your name down as many times until my fingers begin to swell.
Yeah, sure, it’s easy to write about you. It’s the hardest thing that is easy for me. It’s all I know.
Your name, here.
My name, over here.
I wonder if I will ever reach a point where you’re no longer the muse for my writing.
I wonder if I will ever have something, someone to give me so much to work with, or in this case write with.
I wonder, if I will ever be over you. See, there it is again- why is this about you?
This should be about me.
It makes me sick, because I know it’s not supposed to be this way, it doesn’t make sense for it to be.
You don’t even remember my birthday. You don’t remember the name of my favorite professor I talk endlessly about. You don’t know anything about me, but I know everything to write about you.
It’s funny that I can fill pages about you but none of myself.
It’s funny that I still think there is going to be a rainbow after this rainstorm, when in actuality it’s still going to be raining, maybe a light drizzle…
It’s hard to write about anything that doesn’t connect you to it, I thought I was so connected to you. But through all of this, the only thing I was connected to was myself. Everything I wrote was just in my head. It was always in my head; it was never real. Right?
It was infatuation. It was all these ideas. It was the second of attention you spared me that has filled an entire library.
I just hope that one day I will find something else, something larger than you, than your idea to write about. I hope that one day I will know that I did all I could, and that my best was good enough, and my best was better for someone else than you. I hope that one day, it won’t be you it’ll be me.
I have hope in myself, that I can turn this into something more than what it never was.
I have a fear that I will get stuck along the way, that I will get lost in you, that I will lose my gift.
The best things I write are about you somehow… but I won’t let myself. There’s going to be something greater, there is going to be me.
She’s here, she’s a rough draft, she’s unread. But one day she’s going to be a New York Best Seller, she’s going to write her story. She’s going to hear herself and she is going to love herself.
She is you.