“I have a new pet name for you,” he said, one evening after we rolled off the bed, and I stood in front of the mirror fidgeting with my bra strap. “Ya?” I said, even as I was looking at the roll of fat around my belly, and the black circles that had come from staying awake too late, usually to just chat with him. “Podgy,” he smiled and then laughed when he saw my horrified reaction. “What!!! It’s cute and suits you,” he said, as he walked by slapping my butt. “You can’t call me podgy. It’s not even a cute name – it’s makes me feel like I am a pig…. Nooo!” I said, as I plopped back in bed on my stomach, throwing my feet like a five-year-old. “But I like podgy girls… so you are podgy,” he growled into my ear, as he lay over me, his skin on mine. Only he could do this — turn me on just with one touch. But I wasn’t going to be okay with this name. I spent hours dressing up for him, doing my hair, smelling good… even buying pretty underwear, which I don’t think he ever bothered seeing – sure, I was a little plump, but podgy. No way. This was making me depressed. “No, you are not calling me podgy. That makes me feel ugly. I don’t care if it’s in jest, or if you think it’s affection. I won’t agree,” I said as I turned on my side, with a tear rolling down my face. And then he hugged me from behind, spooning his frame into mine – always such a perfect fit. And his hand went around that muffin top, cupping it with his fingers. “It is affection. It’s love. Your body is beautiful to me. What would I do if you were like other girls and didn’t eat pizza with me? Or share my whiskey and coke? And your dark circles, are proof that you love me. Because after a long day, you still sit and talk to me… hear my worries, and put your hand over my head as I whine. Your body, your face, are testaments of who you are, my lover,” he said as he snuggled closer in. And then he dug his fingers deeper in her flesh and said, “So cute… my little podgy.” She smiled into his arms and then mock scowled, “Only you can say that.” And then he said, “Because it’s mine. All mine. That’s why only I can say that. Only me.” Finally, Podgy was happy.
I want to be really sad. I want to wallow in my predicament and pity the life I have. A life where we can’t be together. But instead I find myself writing a happy love letter. Because I am choosing to be happy at a time I could be sad. Maybe that makes me even more awesome. But I am going to be happy that you ran your hands through my hair that night as I rested my head on your thigh. I am happy about knowing your each thought. I am ecstatic that desire me, and kiss me like I taste of strawberries. Or chocolate maybe. I smile as I say that. I am happy I can let my fingers feel your skin, because there is nobody I want more. I am happy we say we love each other, even though our love may be forgotten soon. I am choosing to be happy in this here and now. So you see the girl you fell in love with — always smiling, always making you smile. I am happy.
I love you.
I watched you yesterday with her. You were sitting at the cafe near the sea, where they light up candles at night. You were kissing her cheek and she was blushing. It made me smile, even though I should hate her. But then I know she’s the one for you. She’s the orchid. And I just a wild flower — you know the dirty red one you pluck and then just stick behind your your ear. The one that makes you feel like a free soul, a hippy who doesn’t have a care. I can’t compare. I don’t want to. Because wild flowers don’t care do they? But I cared about you. I did. I loved you. It was a completely mad kind of love. Hope you felt that? I know you did, every time I kissed you. I always wore my heart on my sleeve. For you. But this is what they mean by ‘somethings are meant to be’. We weren’t.
But who will tell that to the wild flower, they never listen, do they? Oh my heart sucks. You make me cuckoo.
Oh won’t someone else pluck me?
you are my best friend. The one who says, “hey what else did I want to tell you,” when you have already told me everything. And then you listen to my everything. I love the way we refer to us as ‘we’. And the way we make plans for the future. Yes, our future is super bright, supernova bright. We like to believe in good things, we best friends. I love how we think the other is the most wonderful person in the world. And we tell each other that. “oh ya baby, you are lovely. You are the best.” “oh yes love, you are awesome like that.” We make each other feel beautiful. That’s why we are best friends. We fuel each other’s dreams. And when we can’t talk anymore, we kiss. That makes it even better — a best friend I like to kiss. That’s who you are.
I love you
I love you. It’s fucking painful. It’s suicide. It’s dumber than dumb. It’s mindblowingly pathetic. It’s like someone holding your heart in their hands and poking it with pins. That’s how it feels when you ignore me, which is all the time. I live in constant pain. It’s like someone holding your hand in freezing water. That dull but unbearable pain that takes over. That’s how my insides feel. I can’t get over you. Maybe I am a sadist who thinks loving you makes me noble and my love true. Oh how I hate you for making me love you. I hate you. I fucking hate you. I hate you. Oh I love you. Be mine, won’t you?
You are the first thought as I wake up. If I could, I would turn around, feel your nose next to mine, and kiss you. I walk around all day thinking of you. The way you surprise me with your playfulness when I am tearing up, the way you say I Love You just when I want to hear it, the way your fingers feel… I smile. The greats may have said it but I feel it. You are my sun, moon and the stars. You are my everything. I sleep thinking of you. I dream of you. It’s all you. It’s all you.