We've resorted to talking about the things we claim are most important in our lives in our blogspot, so blogspot, I guess I can confide in you and pretend it's who I really want to say this to. It won't matter, none of it ever does.
Alcohol is the devil.
I've been battered because of it for a long time. I'm a slut, a bitch, a whore, he's not in love with me, he hates me, go fuck yourself, get out of my house, etc., etc., etc. I walked alone to the parking lot and slept in a bed by myself on Valentine's Day, cleaned your wounds on my birthday and your black eye on New Year's; I've been cheated on not even two weeks after our relationship was supposedly rocky, even after I had tried so hard not to, to no avail, to cried to you about how I'd lay in my mom's bed and cry with her after my dad left, lied to, hit and pushed because of it; I've driven up and down New Jersey, ran into the cold streets in heels at night to find you, made sure you're sleeping on your side, picked you up after you've fallen and hit your head on walls, driven to your house in the middle of the night to make sure you're alive, etc., etc., etc. And the most important thing, was make sure you always knew I loved you, and how amazing I thought you were, even if it happened to be the morning after you called me a bitch and were somehow mad at me for making you upset. How one day I had big plans to marry you, and how your uncle was going to walk me down the aisle. How my favorite time of year is seeing your little cousins unwrap our presents at Christmas, or sitting in your mom's kitchen with her and Brian until very late at night, fire in the backyard, until we'd turn in downstairs and fall asleep on the couch. Or falling asleep in your bed and waking up the menu screen of a terrible action movie from the 80s, being apart and texting about how all we wanted was to just be cuddling with each other, or the night you asked me to be your girlfriend on the living room carpet of my old house at 12:01 on August 1st, my old prom flowers in hand. How simply taking a drive with you could turn into us singing every song we knew or literally reciting every screenplay of movies we both love. Those times started to get fewer and farther between, with too much coaxing on my part. I know you hurting your knee was the worst thing that could possibly happen, but I am not your knee.
I never asked for anything back, maybe a fight or two here and there about how I just wanted to feel a little better about myself, that never got through. All I wanted, was to feel wanted. I love you with every fiber of my being, and hold onto the sober, good memories like they're diamonds, like the "diamond that your heart was, that I hid under my jacket and ran", and I always have, pretty much since the day I met you. I threw everything I knew away to be with you, because I knew you were the one for me. I'm sick of feeling not good enough. Because I am, and if you can't see that, that is your fault.
