you’re so fucking annoying
you’re going to be holding my hand in 27 hours and sometimes i think im so excited that i feel like im going to cry and i dont and it happens all over again
i feel like a child before christmas day—rushing to sleep at four in the afternoon so tomorrow comes faster; jesus how i missed you
Once again I have added not eating to the list of ways I deal
with the burden of being alive. I feel too old for this.
I have this strange solidarity with my seventh grade self.
The way she lived on green apples and coffee for six months
and her mother never noticed.
The friends I live with now say nothing when I do not eat.
When I carefully measure out my 600 calories a day
and half of them are wine. It is not their responsibility
to take care of me. It is my own. But lately,
I’m doing a terrible job.
Lately I’ve been looking at my body like it belongs
to someone else. Watching it slowly shrink like the crowd
at a party that that has gone too late. My stomach
has been an enemy my entire life. I miss her now that she’s gone.
She is a conquered enemy. A vanquished foe.
I did not want to win. Not like this.
I don’t know how to start a love letter without tracing the edges of your masculinity with my fingertips—or how to end one without the redness of my lips; but I’ve always blurred the edges of my heart with words to make it easy to make love to serifs but now I’ve learned the art of how to just make love without them and I wake up in the middle of the night wondering if I’m all gone or alright—if happiness is heavy yet light—if I’ll ever remember how to write without our need forged into every word or if I’d even like to?
I want to funnel my thoughts of you—to carve these virtues you’ve salvaged from the little girl you fixed into curvatures and ink but what if we expire and I’m left rereading all of these wonderful thoughts? Will I taint them, then? Or will they stay as pure as that night in Hotel Nikko?
"I knew I would love you"—and it’s odd how a turn of phrase could turn jade into ruby—how water will always cure stone I wonder if I had not ran, would it be any different?
We always marry our firsts; have I broken enough traditions to keep you? Have I fought enough; been angry for long enough—to allow myself to stop these chronicles of little girl pining for a father no longer living and little girl hating a mother never happy?
One more week! I’ve missed you, and that feeling of home. Two months this time, but somehow the days go without longing: just purpose.
Sometimes I wonder how you can hurt me so much and not realize it. Sometimes I wonder why I hate that I’m born from you—but most of the time I’m just angry.
Is this worth it? The fifty hour weeks and the inane want to be just better? Was this meant to be easy?
Why do I even try?
im happy and rich in love and money but not in physical ways it’s only two more days dear god how i miss you and oh how much ive grown so: only one-fifteen instead of the one-twenty-five my hipbones jutt once again with the wear working girls only have and i cant wait to feel your masculinity against my skin i wonder how little my life meant before, since days are no longer monotonous and life has this repeating sensation of worth, i wonder when these words stop being arrays and into singular thoughts i hope the string of my life will always be entwined in yours and i die the romantic my father covered in his melancholy i want to be just yours
fourteen hour days twenty dollars a whole life like this: grinding out hours and hundreds and insignificant things until the next plane ride to home in your arms and i wonder when the miles will hit zero and whether or not this love is finite because theres no drizzle or hurricane like alaska just drought and seasons and winter youre cold but beautiful as snow touches ground i wonder if it becomes ethereal or just water vapor—are you still there in my dreams like the nights before or will it just be night when i close my eyes im afraid of dying of being stuck in black without your hand and i wonder
if i die
how much of you
I always wondered how it could be so possible that us together could reach such perfection: how lying next to you could be at such a level of happiness—how your lips against my skin could make me believe in being beautiful.
But the world has it’s price: that months of being apart at a time will always, always be worth those weekends together.
Every long-distance relationship has an end date: when the distance is no longer long—and it’s thinking about how ours is years away that makes my heart fall—how it’s not just another year of this, but two or maybe three or four that makes me breathless and angry.
When I’m next to you the rest of the world dissipates—when I’m next to you, happiness is just your air mixed with mine: and when I’m next to you, the world gave us our price.
It was a year ago that you asked me to be yours: lying on your leather couch in your old white tee, my head on your lap and the residue of my heart leftover on the edges of your lips.
"Will you be my girlfriend?"
And I laughed then—the kind you told me after that you loved because it was childish and free—the type of laugh I’ve lost over the thousands of miles I’ve flown to be with you: the type of laugh that I forget about when we’re thousands of miles apart and months away.
I wonder why it’s so hard for me to write about us now than when I used to write about us then.
I wonder why the romance of long distance has left me—why the beauty in being yours is so hard to see—why these letters about you are less and less as time goes by.
I wonder why I was stupid enough to have my first relationship be long-distance, and I wonder why I just couldn’t love anyone else other than you.
And sometimes at night I’m angry at the world—at you and at me, for choosing something that hurts so much, but most of the time I’m too numb from loving you so.
And sometimes, at night, I realize we didn’t choose to fit so wonderfully—that we both know we’ll never find a love like ours again: that being crazy isn’t choosing to be together, but ever thinking about being apart.
I wonder if you still read this—still anxious about your fleeting (not-so-fleeting) teenage girl? Are you still curious about the young heart you stole in the night—or are you content now that I was born to be nothing less than yours: that the gaps in the curvature of my body were sculpted after the ridges in your fingertips?
I always argued that I was nothing like my mother or my brothers and everything like my father but I was wrong because we’ll never be anything other than products of imploding affection—loving too hard: forcing our hearts into our own mouths with the fingers of others I wonder if it’s my mother or my father my heart has molded itself after or if it makes a difference when my lips are red by the end.
I was taught to be cautious with my heart: to never wane, and learn how boys would never change and to never need nor want for them to. I sat and saved myself for eighteen years until I met you: the second boy I’ve ever kissed—the eighth I’ve held hands with and the fifteenth I’ve ever hugged: the only to ever seen me without superficial things and I wondered when the numbers would stop and realized you were the first I’ve fallen in love with.
Years I’ve wondered when the day would come when Jenny Vu would stop being alone, and I’d never would’ve believed it would be three thousand miles away and then zero and thirty and eight-hundred once more.
I’ve never been good with math, only words—so I’ve kept it simple and let you be my only one and I wonder if it’s ever numbers with you or just bodies against skin, and my happiness in your heart.
It’s been one entire year since we met in person, and it makes every single mile apart so much harder. I don’t think it’s supposed to be easier because every night I’m alone in this bed without you I can’t seem to forget the way my fingertips feel across every inch of your skin; the way your shoulder feels under my head and the sweet smell of my body against yours when we sleep—how the world seems to silence and ink begins to touch paper for a love like ours. Whenever I get sleepy or anxious or angry at the world somehow you’re in my head still, and I wonder if this is what I was born to have: a medley of loves that never stay.
It’s been really long since I’ve written and when the nights get like this all I seem to do is remember when my head nested in your lap or yours in my mouth and I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I’ll never love someone as hard as I do you—but I get stuck in the corner full of virgins and their badboys and I don’t know if you love her more, still—because all I know is you and you know so much more.
But we’ll be together once more and you’ll pound surety in my heart with the way you hold me as if I’ll break—my hand enveloped in yours: your eyes only for me.
So why is it when I’m alone at night I can’t seem to understand why you chose me—and why the question is always answered with ridiculous surprise: because you love me, and it was never a choice.