It’s OK To Be The One Who Cares More

Thought Catalog

Recently, I had to give some advice I hated. A friend of mine has been seeing this guy (who we’ll call Kellen Heller) who either isn’t that into texting, texting my friend or just isn’t into my friend. We can’t tell the difference. This is because my friend (who we’ll call Uncanny Sullivan) will send Kellen one, two, three or four text messages and hear almost nothing back, except for maybe a passing “LOL” or “interesting,” which is a text euphemism for “IDGAF.” And when they are together, Kellen’s behavior matches his stoic communication skills. He’s also not that into cuddling, conversation, touching my friend, or even initiating sex. When Uncanny will try to fool around or start something, Kellen says he’s not in the mood, has a headache or is too tired — like the bored, sexually unfulfilled spouse on every sitcom. No one wants to be Patricia Heaton…

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I’m sorry for

all the terrible things I’ve done

they still keep me up

late at night

when the drugs set in and my 

body turns to stone but I

still hear the rip of flesh

as I plunge my knife into your skin

repeatedly and

I wonder if there’s a god when

your screams fall upon deaf ears

because I had lost mine

long ago

Blood drips down the sides of

my face and they paint pictures

of laugh lines

but I could never have laughed

at the sight of you prostrated

before me white thighs red lips

a chest wide open your heart on 

your sleeve

I’m sorry for leaving the blood

all over your bed when I

pushed you off the 

seventh floor and car alarms

blared beneath me people screamed

and I went back to bed

the scent of you lingering

under my nose

but you were all mine

and your blood made

a perfect perfume for your

sister when I

held her against the wall and 

took her everything her nothing could

compare to the way you clawed

at my face and drew blood

from my eyes

that feasted upon her body

as she swayed in the moonlight

the tracks of her tears

still fresh

when her dear sister

was taken from her family too young

too soon

I am still sorry

for all the terrible things I’ve done

when she rides me

and I see your face looking down

inspiring the invisible blade 

in my hands and I choke her

and I push her off the seventh floor

but there was nothing like you

no one like you

and the way your blood

spread out like wings before you

my little moonlight-kissed angel


Perhaps I am not 

so sorry after all, the world

could never

appreciate your beauty like I 




I am afraid to love you

Afraid that you’d find me

hiding behind pretty words

and castles of gold,

only to find that I was

not the person you wanted

me to be

I am afraid that you’ll

see the scars that paint my

skin and the blood that

lingers between my teeth

and decide that maybe I am

too broken to be put back




I am so afraid to fall

for your smile or the twinkle

in your eyes

because your words peel from me

bit by bit everything i

kept sacred behind lips

sewn tight and you kiss them

shackles fall apart and I

am scared because I’m falling

into your dark eyes,

feeling around in the night

and the crunch under my bare


resonate in my skull and I wonder

where you are when I

drown in the sensation of

me without you.

You say you love me more

than I love you but you

don’t know how my

soul has memorized the sound

of your name and repeated it

to itself so many times

every metal and element

is stained with the letters of




So please,

bear with me when I

cannot say I love you

because those words would be

the key to the oceans

stirred up in my soul

and I am afraid you’ll

get washed away with the rest

of the world

and I will be left

standing at my seaside cliff


where you’ve gone.

The Hardest Thing

I’ve always been good at beating around the bush and hiding behind prose, rather than delivering a message straight. My poems or pseudo poems are all tapestries woven from things I wish I had the courage to say.

I’ve always been good at pretending I liked someone or flirting with someone I wasn’t even remotely attracted to; it’s how I get by– knowing that I was in control, that I could disappear if I wanted to, unscathed.

That’s the problem when you pass me by. My heart races and oceans decide to manifest between the folds of my hands, my eyes find nowhere better to rest than the slope of your jawline. I’ve always been good at pretending, but terrible at telling the truth.

When you slip your fingers between mine, I swear my lungs burst into flames; when you brush your lips over my skin, I forget where I am.

You are a book I wish I could keep on my bookshelf, turning page after page into the night; always finding more creases and indentions to love as my fingers find your pages and get cut along your corners. You are that song on the radio I can’t seem to escape from: all one thousand of them.

Do you see now? I’ve never been good at getting to the point.

That’s the hardest thing when a liar like me falls in love.