To the person who will love me next, I’m sorry.

I must apologize in advance if, one day, my words have the power to kindle a fire upon your lips, causing electric sensations to render your tongue temporarily numb. Witnessing your cheeks blush coyly, a feverish hue, and experiencing a seemingly insatiable hunger as intoxicated butterflies seek their escape, only to be met with a sudden breakdown in communication. Days, weeks, and months pass with nothing but white noise, while soldiers continue to transmit their affirmatives, but the channel remains lifeless. Static and hellfire- It’s fading away.

I apologize if you ever find yourself compelled to profess your love for me repeatedly. It’s frustrating when my words fail to reach you, and my love falls short of warming your heart. It feels as if your heart resides in a perpetual winter, while the warmth of the summer solstice remains trapped deep within my gaze.

I find myself shedding tears because I don’t let myself to let it all out. My deepest desire is to envelop you with warmth and comfort. I’m truly sorry that, when you express your feelings, there’s no reciprocation, no acknowledgment, and it seems like your words are falling on deaf ears. It’s as if your ears receive the words, but your mouth offers no response from your vocal cords—a silence, like a black hole absorbing all sound.

My primary mode of communication becomes manifest in the gentle kisses I share with you, as I strive to convey my emotions. I hope you can hold onto those moments and understand that my intentions are sincere- truly sincere. I apologize if your trust in me wavers; this is an aspect of myself that I’m actively working to change. I hope to never sense your judgment in your body language, and for it to weigh heavily on me.

The fear of losing you gnaws at me, like a trapped coyote. Prompting me to scramble to fix things, often at the cost of my own identity and sanity. I’ve been conditioned by past experiences that whatever I do never quite measures up, and it’s a heavy burden to carry- one I add that I never have to let you carry.

There’s a certain “enough” embedded in the art of love letters and meticulously noted dates, like remembering your mother’s birthday or inquiring about your happiness, all while grappling with the unsettling paradox of my own unhappiness. It’s like an endless loop of self-inflicted torment, a recurring nightmare that thrives on my anxiety. This anxiety, in turn, nourishes my heartache, and my heartache saps the strength from my muscles, leaving me powerless in my own struggle.

You, though, my dear, seem almost too perfect, and if history decides to replay itself, I fear the unvarnished truth may ultimately be my undoing. My history feels like a chemistry class, with a stern teacher constantly reminding me not to toy with fire.
You know, my vulnerability is a bit like trying to place a glass cover on a smartphone screen, and those tiny specks of dust that you can barely see? Well, those are your words and reactions, sticking right to the surface of the very thing I’m trying to protect. Think of my emotions as having a touch of OCD. They’re spotless. Your words are like those specks of dust, and I’m the phone screen, inexplicably prone to attracting dirt and oil. So, handling me might require some extra effort, like until your neck hurts and your pores start to sweat.

Please, understand that I might need us to delve deep before I can admit that I’m new to all this. I’ve never done this before, and when you leave, it feels like my soul’s sobbing, but I don’t quite know how to sing it lullabies, and I don’t quite want to live by that. I won’t pretend I’ll be the easiest person to love. I never had too many good examples to follow; the ones I had were from a broken template, discarded due to errors. A prototype thrown away. I’m sorry for any complications that might bring, or any part of my machinery that fails. I’m sorry.