I want to write, I really do. My hands are itching to type, to scratch at paper with a pencil...but I stare at this blank page and all I can do is think of you. I'm oblivious...I'm not sure if you've been joking or dropping hints, but I sure as hell can't get you out of my mind, despite how you make me hurt. (The kind of hurt: hollow, shattering, life-destoying, I-don't-want-to-get-out-of-bed pain) You mention to me girls that you think are attractive, or beautiful...but you can't see how that makes me feel (As if you were clawing at the lining of my stomach). When you come to me about your broken heart...I don't think you see how many cracks you're adding to mine. Worst part? I still want to see you, to hug you, to kiss you. I want to talk to you every second of every day. If that makes me a creep, so be it. I don't care too easily, I become attached to those I come to care about. I renewed my self-image for you, I shed a label I had been for two years for you. I accepted my feelings for you only to find someone who cared not for me. I'm afraid to ask, really, afraid that you'll cut me off. I think that would be worse, honestly, than the pain I feel when I see you. The splinter getting wedged deeper and deeper into my heart with every word. I know I can never be with you, I know this. I know you tell me I'm beautiful, that I'm special. You say I'm awesome, amazing, adorable...but you don't make me feel it. All the waiting, all the insomnia...I just hope it's worth something. Because I'm waiting for you right now. And all I can see is you at a bar with your friends, and you're looking at some girl like I wish you looked at me. I see you taking her home...and I see you telling me about it. And I won't want to know, but I will. Because I'm so good at torturing myself. I'm so good at it, and I just want to be happy again, I just want to feel like me. And I was so sure who that was until you came along. I just can't stop the constant images, the fantasies of you and me. Of what it would be like to have you. For you to have me. I've told you things I've not told anyone else. I continue to tell you, yet you remain a mystery. Fuck. I'm completely, and utterly screwed.