One day I’ll become easier to love.

I don’t know where to begin. It seems I only come here when my cup runneth over with sadness, fear, anxiety, and anger. I suppose it’s an outlet of sorts. A release that I no longer have in the real world. When is the last time I actually picked up a pen and put it to paper? I haven’t. Not in a very long time. I need to.

I have so many pent up thoughts, emotions, devastations. Maybe if I write them down, I can let go of them. I can start healing myself, repairing the broken pieces. Maybe I just need new glue. 

I find it hard to let people love me, for fear that they will suddenly stop. It has become tiring for my boyfriend to constantly reassure me that he does in fact love me. My brain fights me every step of the way. It plants seeds of doubt in every corner of my mind. “He doesn’t love you. He is only with you for comfort, for safety.” “It’s not true! I am worthy! I love him and he loves me!” I always fight back angrily and try to win. I seldom ever do.

I guess I’m writing this because it’s been bottled in my mind for so long and this is the only way I know how to get it out. It’s much easier to type this, than to write it on paper. One day I might be able to be perfectly normal. To live without sadness or anger. To live without fear or anxiety.

One day I might become easier to love.

Today is not that day.

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I’m struggling for words.

It’s been so long since I’ve been able to push out anything remotely coherent. I’ve started therapy to try and work out some issues, maybe she can fix this writers block I’ve seemed to carry for years. Why would anyone ever want to be a writer? The imaginative and creative process is such a fickle thing. It’s quite destructive. I feel like shit when I don’t write and I write like shit when I do write. It’s so turbulent in my head. I wish I could explain. Although, I’m not some special flower, there is someone out there who knows exactly what I feel. So anyway, I guess the point is that I wrote a tiny little blurb. It’s about love or something stupid like that. Enjoy. Or don’t.
Your kisses, they taste different. They no longer breathe a world of life into my soul. They no longer set fire upon my skin. I don’t feel it anymore. That spark, the ignite. This may not be a bad thing. They taste like a fresh morning, a new start. They taste like sunshine after a rain storm, clean and lovely. The fever is gone, the rush, the vivid flames. Now it’s replaced with a safeness, a comfort. Oh how I love the flavor of 2 am conversations, of waking up slowly to find each other under the sheets. It’s a new feeling, a new journey that I’m finding to be a delight. Please, kiss me more often, I crave that new sensation. Your kisses, they taste different.