I am not a hopeless romantic. I was.

I am not a sensitive, caring, compassionate, empathic person. I was.

I am not an open, forgiving, selfless person. I was.

All of these things I was, I no longer am. All because I loved people. I would love them and want them closer and they would get closer and I would love them some more...and something would snap...and I would feel suffocated, and I would become cold and distant and want to be alone all the time, and I would push them away rudely, and they would leave my life, and I would be alone again.

It happened three times before I finally realized it was my fault, not theirs. I was doing it, not them. I want more than anything to be close to someone, to tell everything to someone, to run and laugh and dance and swim and cuddle and share and talk and cry and be with someone. I want this with every fiber of my being. But then I get it. And I can't stand it. And I have to get away.

Each time it happens, I shut myself off more. The wall is strengthened, thickened, I become more alone, less willing to come out. Less willing to try. Less willing to risk.

I would like for love not to kill me, please.


This bucket of angst has been brought to you by 2001. It's 2005 now, and I'd have deleted this if it wasn't good for a laugh.

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