All We Wrote:

All We Wrote:

How long do you think we’ve been doing this? I bet you don’t know. Eleven years. Eleven long years, we’ve been back and forth for over a god damn decade. I’ve given you everything. I rush home from work, I cook and clean and carve out every spare second that I possibly can for you. I’ve made you my life and you haven’t shown a single ounce of gratitude. Some people want us to win, others roll their eyes when I mention you, but I don’t hear a single fucking critic, the good or the bad. I have tunnel vision for us and what we could attain. Nothing pulls you close enough to see what we could be. We could be great like Gatsby, or as profound as Hemingway. I leave nothing unsaid for you, I bleed thoughts for no food and open doors for you to close. Some days I wish I could rip up everything we achieved. If I did would you care? Would you beg me to stay and hear me out? Would you really listen to my words instead of meeting them with the cold silence you usually do?

I see you with others, other men and women. You don’t discriminate. You lift them up to pedestals and take them places I’ve begged to go. I get jealous and turn cold on you, it’s a toxic trait I hate, but it grows. What’s the deal? What do I lack? Some guidance would be appreciated. When you talk about greatness you leave me out, your top ten, fifteen, twenty, even top one hundred or a thousand, you leave me out. I haven’t seen myself on a single list of yours. We spend almost every night together, yet I’m no closer to knowing how you regard me, even after all these years. My work jeans are so faded and ripped they split at the seams and my hands are so calloused they’ve turned to leather; I need a break. I need you to tell me I’m enough. I need to know that we can do this.

I have a girl you know? She wonders how I am and waits for my call during the hours I spend with you. I could give her more, I could give her everything, but you divide me, I’m addicted. You’re a drug with no high and your comedown doesn’t just crash, it crumbles. You cave my chest and leave me speechless, low down, lonesome and tired. How dare you take every hour under the moonlight and give me nothing back. You call me when I’m at work, when I’m with my friends and when you know it’s hard for me to get to you. When I’m finally with you, you stare back with a pale face and leave the words to me. I talk about you a little too much around people I probably shouldn’t, they don’t say a word, you’ve made them pity me, they believe you’re something I’ll never have. Why toy with me? Don’t you want this too?

I’ve come to a conclusion; I won’t let you play me. I won’t be a stepping stone to the next man, and I won’t do this for the rest of my life. I demand your respect and something back. I’m willing to give us some time, change won’t be quick. I say a year, a whole year where I give you my all. I’ll lay it all down and bleed ink until the pen is dry. I’ll write every line like my fucking life depends on it and I’ll take every single step in your name. I’ll let you consume me and become a new religion that plagues my minds every waking hour. I’ll do what it takes but I need you to see me, to hear my voice. I need you more than I ever intended to, and if I’m not enough, stay silent. I promise you, after it all, I won’t be your pet no more. I’ll burn every page we’ve shared and let the ashes scatter away the last of what we had. You’re a beautiful craft, but a man can only bleed so much for the written word.