Maybe

I come here longing to feel seen, some how felt. Finding myself it others letters, giving in to the allure of a fantasy of being wanted and loved deeply; to be unknowlingly known by another. Reading about the ache that is only for me. Every word feels like it could be for me. My mental machinations push and press the words into a story that feels like truth. Maybe? My question, my last resort when I am on the precipe of belief. Excruciating aimless hope, "He is...", "...for him".

Once read, I get what I really came here for, a safe way to experience pain, to punish myself for trying, for wanting. Truth. I can control the feeling, release it alone where no one can see. I suppose I am wishing for sort of frenzied catharsis. Finally felt, seen, accepted and let go of.

Not so, I comeback time and time again to read letters. Maybe it's comfort in consistency, emotional pain, I know how that feels. Perhaps a sense of personal power, inflicting my own heartache keeps me safe. I can hurt myself more. I'm tired of this loop. I'm putting down my blade, I don't want to keep reopening wounds. I'm longing to see and know myself. I ache for me.