Dear little one,
I'm not sure why I keep writing you these dismal letters, and for that I offer up an empty apology. Sometimes I write to you to warn you of the troubles that lie ahead, sometimes I write to tell you that things get better, and sometimes - when my heart is rubbed raw against my ribcage and I've exhausted the ears of those closest to me - I write to you because you're the only one left who will listen.
I'm sorry for writing you about this again. (And I'm sorry that you will eventually grow up to become this girl who apologizes to herself for talking about the aches in her own soul.) I'm sorry that this is what you have to look forward to, and I'm sorry that there's nothing you can do about it.
Things aren't always this bad, and I'd be lying to you if I said that you can't handle it eventually. But there's this hopeless ravine that will grow inside you, a great cavernous maw ready to swallow you up on nights like these.
Why was a heart like yours created without a partner's to match? How could there not be a single heart like yours in all the world?
Is this the curse of the artist? To feel so much and be given so little to feel with another person? To drown in an ocean of your own thoughts with no hopes for rescue, or someone to drown with? Or someone to float with?
God, just someone! Anyone.
Surely, there's someone who can see you for who you are, who can hear you the way you need to be heard. Surely, there's someone like you, with a restless soul who understands the world the way you do. Surely, the world is not all just pretty faces and empty skulls.
Surely, there is someone out there, someone clinging to the same hollow hope, of finding someone alike in heart.
God, there's got to be somebody who feels like I do inside!
Right?
Nights like these are nights where you want to grip your hair and scream until your throat is bloody and your lungs are weak. Tonight is a night of exasperated miserable loneliness and, little one, you will grow only too accustomed to the feel of its icy fingers down your arms.
Empty arms.
Empty bed.
Emptiness.
How are you supposed to survive without someone to hold when this heart was made so obviously to love another? How is this great big world devoid of a partner for you - for me? How can this heart be so hungry for something it has never tasted, and (from what I've seen so far) never will?
I say all this, but I know the wicked truth of it.
This heart has a partner. Only one. Only one person on the face of the planet could love a heart like this in the way that this heart demands.
And he'll never know of this heart's existence, because that's the merciless irony of this life. He'll go on to find someone prettier, thinner, more interesting than you and me. He'll be captivated and she'll be smitten (oh, she'd better be smitten to have snagged a treasure like him) and you and I will be just some passerby on the sidewalk.
Who is he?
Why can't there be more like him?
God, why is this yearning for an impossible person so painful?
God, why was this heart made to feel incomplete and empty?
God, someone tell me, please!
Why do I itch to have lonely lyrics embedded in my skin as a constant reminder of how lonesome I feel? Why does no one understand when I say I'm aching, withering inside my own body? Why does no one care when I cannot stop crying on a Wednesday night because I feel so alone?
Why do I feel so lonely all the time?
Why isn't there anyone out there who knows what is going on inside of me?
How could I possibly be so alone on this planet that houses billions of people?
I don't have answers for us, Savannah.
You, me - we're valuable. I say that because everyone says that when someone is sad, so I'm saying it to us, even though I don't understand the words anymore.
Love,
Yourself
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