a letter to whoever loves me next

To whoever loves me next, I’m sorry. I’m sorry if one day my words brings lightning to your lips, and the tingle of electric bursts makes your tongue turn numb. Your cheeks turn red, flushing flirtatiously. Feverish hue, and a bottomless stomach with drunk butterflies maneuvering to get out of, then out of nowhere there’s radio silence. White static for days, weeks, months, and soldiers keep saying roger, roger, roger and out but the frequency is dead. It’s dying. Im sorry if you feel the need to say you love me over and over. Because, my words aren’t reaching you and my love isn’t warming you. Your heart is in winter and the summer solstice is buried deep in my eyeballs. I keep crying because I want to get it out. I want so badly to warm you. I’m sorry, when you say it, that no reciprocation is met, no attention is given, and words lay on deaf ears. Ears, that feel the words go into them but a mouth that is getting no feedback from their vocal chords. A black hole that absorbs all sound. My only way to communicate is to kiss you as softly as I could. Cling onto my lips. I’m sorry if you don’t believe me, this is how I am and I’m trying to change. I feel your body language judging me and it’s tearing me apart. I will worry about losing you, and , i’ll scramble, through everything. I won’t be myself, because i’ve been taught through actions that whatever i do isn’t enough. And enough is in love letters and dates and remembering your mothers birthday and asking you if you’re happy, only to not be happy myself. It’s a self recurring nightmare that feeds on my anxiety. And my anxiety feeds on my heartache and my heartache feeds on my muscles that are too weak to stand up for myself. You’re too good to be true, and if history repeats itself then I think the truth will finish me. My history is a chemistry class, and my teacher tells

me not to play with fire. Understand, that my vulnerability is like trying to put a glass cover on a phone screen and the tiny dust that you can barely see are your words, and reaction to the very phone you’re trying to protect. Understand that my feelings have OCD and the dust are your words and the phone is a magnet to dirt and oil and you need to handle me until your neck hurts and your pores seep sweat. please. We’ll go deep before I admit that I’m new to this. Never done this before. That my soul weeps when you leave, and i don’t know how to sing it lullabies. I probably won’t be easy to love. Too many people never gave me examples. The examples i have are from a broken template; abandoned because of error. I’m sorry