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anonymous love letters.

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(no subject) [Feb. 16th, 2008|02:22 am]
anonymous love letters.

angrycereal
b,

i want nothing more than for this to happen; you're all that i can bother to [day]dream about. how perfect it will be. getting dressed every morning just for you. stepping off the subway, right into you.

you've got me on pins and needles and i can't wait for you to tell me i'm yours

i want nothing more,
b.
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(no subject) [Jan. 23rd, 2008|03:25 pm]
anonymous love letters.
capperi
g. -

on moving to L.A. with you:
being in love, and being in love in the same state?
that's a yes.


yours yours yours,
l.
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(no subject) [Dec. 4th, 2007|08:06 am]
anonymous love letters.

angrycereal
j

all tangled up in the sheets

so very very soon, i'll be able to take this photo every single night, if i wanted. and i very well may do that.

one bedroom or two? well, one bedroom, of course.

all of this is making me so excited,
b
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(no subject) [Sep. 24th, 2007|11:16 am]
anonymous love letters.

angrycereal
dear same old boy,

this will be the best time. we'll walk around, pretending that we don't have lives outside of eachother. and for five days, we won't.

we'll sleep late, and meander to espresso royale for breakfast. over americanos, we'll waste the day doing the crossword and making eyes. we'll play footsie in train car, and you'll kiss my cheeks when the cold turns them pink.

there's nothing better than these excursions to you.

thanks for the plane ticket,
same old girl
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(no subject) [Nov. 8th, 2006|01:30 pm]
anonymous love letters.

azaelia_took
[Current Mood |sympatheticsympathetic]

C:
We're both a lot alike, you and I. We're both chasing after someone we can't ever have. You really like her, but she has a boyfriend. She doesn't focus on people. She wouldn't be good for you, and she's not falling for you, as far as I can see.

Me? I'm chasing after you, but if you don't know that by now, you may not ever, since I'm shy. I sit here, hoping you'll open your eyes, see the girl who's been waiting for you since we met...see me for me, see me beautiful. But I have to be realistic. I think you'd be good for me, and I know I'm falling for you...but all I see is you chasing the impossible.

I understand. I know the feeling. I'm doing the same thing, and I'm not giving up. Because no one should ever have to.

And I'll be here. If you ever do. Fall.

~me

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I believe in unsent letters [Nov. 2nd, 2006|12:12 am]
anonymous love letters.

pinched
This is relevant. I did this for my creative writing class for the NPR "This I Believe" series.


I believe in unsent letters; the torn, hidden, collected remnants of thoughts had in the most pure moments. They're so pure that the vulnerability is too much to allow. The foreign mind meanderings committed to paper, in the form of a rushed letter, are so intrinsic, and the emotions they reflect so raw, that I know he won't understand. Or maybe he will, maybe that's the problem. The provocative need to express myself to him is often too great to nurse with time, it's got to explode. I've got to think and care too much, just for a while, until the pages are full and my head is empty. Empty until the next time he sends me nakedly into new, unfamiliar corners of my frightening mind to discover another deep, overwhelming reason to unfold for him. Better on this unsent letter than under his invasive gaze.
The most intrinsic letter I'll ever write is also the most intrinsic letter he'll never read. While my mind is on fire with him, shouting "Santa merda!" around its bends (where the corners are smoothed over with him) he'll be completely ignorant. I like it that way. He's the pull behind my eyes, my headaches in the evenings, what fills the space when I've forgotten something, but he wouldn't know that to use it against me, or take me up on it and fuck it all up, because the only proof is burnt or shredded or thrown out the window or drowned in a lake or hidden where he'll never look or stuffed inside my big mouth that aches to come clean, but won't.
Some things are too dangerous to let slip. Some things are too meaningful to trust another person to interpret. So I write it out and I seal it up. I don't address it to 119 W. Pine Grove Road, Pine Grove MIlls, Pennsylvania 16868. I don't try to make it smell good or any of my signature shit because he'll never have it to smell or open or read or analyze or understand or respond to. I don't have to anticipate his reaction or even care what he thinks about it because it's mine to keep from him. The fact that we go together like sphinxes and riddles, or that sometimes it feels like he's ruining any chance I'll ever have to feel this way about anyone else, or that he and I are not prophecy, but description, or that I really don't want to be anywhere remotely close to being in love with him, everything is bound by DNA, in separate envelops devoid of any conclusive markings, and sealed in a box made of cedar that I plan to bury at my earliest convenience.
I strongly believe in the ability to hide how I feel; to decide how vulnerable I'm willing to be. Despite how exhaustively weak being such a fortress makes me, I believe in the importance of stringing my dramatic, in-the-moment emotions through a mighty filter, avoiding their effects on us both until I run out of new ways to confess the same things.
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(no subject) [Oct. 3rd, 2006|11:15 pm]
anonymous love letters.

angrycereal
dear boyyy,

thank you for my favorite teas,
and for the small things.

t minus three weeks,
girrrrl
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(no subject) [Oct. 2nd, 2006|01:17 pm]
anonymous love letters.

angrycereal
dear boyyyfriend,

i miss how excited you get to try all of the silly food-stuffs i make.
i miss how when we touch it's electric, or perfect, as you like to put it.
i miss how we'd accidentally catch the same train home; it was like a chance meeting with my soulmate, except we'd get off at the same stop.

three.more.weeks.

you'll hold my hand through my mittens.
and kiss my pink cheeks.
i'll just grin.

another month,

and you'll come home.
we'll sleep in and i'll make french toast, with vanilla, while you make espresso, extra foam.
all of our friends will come over, and we'll host friday-afternoon thanksgiving.

i can't wait,
the only one you've ever loved
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(no subject) [Jun. 7th, 2006|01:07 pm]
anonymous love letters.

pinched
Dear ____________________________________________________,

I don't know where I am today. I'm surrounded by thoughts I'm unfamiliar with. Like countries, continents, rivers, tributaries that I can't name. They just seem foreign, so I try to make them insignificant, but they rob me of my time and energy anyway. I don't have a choice but to feel the ways that I do about everything. I don't have a choice over whether or not I understand. I wish it were something simple to read into. I don't even know where I am today.

Someone once told me that they felt like they were holding the moon in their belly, and I never felt more in tune with what someone else felt. That was months ago, though I've yet to fully give birth to my own planetary object. I'm still sitting in this room contemplating myself. I hang up pretend curtains to block out the light so that I can sleep through the day. There are always more conversations during the day. Fake men in my drive way, staring up and waiting to be seen. I open my window and pretend to listen, but they don't speak. They don't speak. They just stare at me. You can't see me if you stare, mister, I say. Eyes glaze over and I'm all a blur. They're missing the finer details. The yellow stress in my iris is what counts, I think.

The other day a boy said that he could get lost in my eyes and I wanted to dare him to try. Instead he threw his bus cart in the trash can and walked away smiling. Like he was proud of being so frank with me. I was proud of him too, but only because he made me feel like I should be. Truthfully, I don't really know how to act around men at all. I just go with their individual flows and try to be everybody's dream girl. In certain circles I've succeeded, even where all others have failed. You'd think it would be gratifying, but it makes me feel used and stupid after they come back from being lost in my eyes. Most men fall in love with me for at least a few short minutes. It's the saddest thing in the world. People give up so easily, and I expect them to.

When it comes down to my bare minimum, you know that I'm scared and all alone...but really, there's more to it than that. Really I'm just peacefully sexual. That's my loneliness. It's the closest to real prayer I've ever been, the closest to peace, the closest to god. It's so scattered, but vivid. There could be a thousand people in the room, a stadium of voyeurs, but in my mind it's just me and my body, my body and I, no one else. That explains a lot about me, you might be thinking...but really it doesn't. It just explains why men are a necessary evil in my life. Why I'm so brittle and scared. I don't want to lose the peace. Or run away from it. drugs. everything is a drug. and I have an addictive personality.

I'm falling into myself again. It's 3 a.m. and raining in my bedroom. It slips down the walls, fat and juicybigasmyfist, and I can only think about how it looks like paint. so it turns greenbluepurpleredyellowpinkorangebrownwhiteandverrrridian until I'm so happy that I can barely stand it. My head falls to my chest and I smile and I feel like dancing but I can't move nor can I figure out why the rain-paint makes me this way. It must be a drug. Or a dream. Or a lie.

I'm perfectly sober, but I don't want to be. I'd rather be reeling in a corner than behind a desk fidgiting. My stomach feels like it;s lined with window paint again. Some strange mixture of ingredients meant to make me feel safe and content. Instead it's killing my insides. I think it is. I think there's something there that shouldnt be. I'm usually something there that shouldnt be. Should I be sorry? The garage is right outside my window. I could open it and sit outside. I could sleep out there on the shingles. Fake, plastic shingles. Cheap shingles, suburban shingles. But they'd be OK and it's not too cold. I could sit outside and stay awhile. A while longer. I could think from my head out there. Right now I don't know where my thoughts are coming from. My guts. My thoughts are coming from my guts.

Who are you thinking about asking about me? Who understands me even though he doesn't really want to and doesn;t understand why he does? That's who I would ask about me.

This is not a clue.
This is not a clue.
This is not a clue
a hint
or a piece of the puzzle.


This is how I am all of the time, you just can;t tell by the looks on my face or the things that I say, because the things that separate me from the true lunatics are the looks on my face and the things that I say. That's what he told me, and he was right. You would know that if you were here. If you knew how to get here. Three shots then straight on 'til morning. Ha. Lies.

Hello, I love you, won't you tell me your name?

That's how it could be between you and I, you know. Easy come, easy go. I'm easy come, if you're easy go. That's all it takes to make me crazy. Just promise to leave me and I'll do whatever you want. Ask anyone. But don't ask me. I don't know what you're talking about.

Are you the crazy silent men outside my window? Which one? They all have names. I don't know them. I give them numbers. It's less personal. I'm in love with you, number two. Number two, number two. ! . ? . ! .

Whose it gonna


















be.

I don't even care this time. Just give me something to do, some way to pass the time. Bye, Bye Miss American Pie typeofthing.

I can't sleep. Don;t be scared. I can't sleep. It's 4 a.m. and it's pouring in my room. I hate to be so informal, I hate to be so impolite, but it's my room after all. I make the rules. I make the list of things we aren;t allowed to do.

You broke them too,
you broke them
also,
you broke them
as well.

You're it. exxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxclamation.


I don't know. There's no use in knowing anyway.

Thank you,

______
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(i hope this heartache of mine won't get any worse.) [Nov. 22nd, 2005|12:13 am]
anonymous love letters.

develop
[Current Mood |you are more interesting than i'll ever be.]
[Current Music |the softies//my empty arms.]

Dear _____,

I'm so fucking jealous of your girlfriend.

For what it's worth,
A.
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