Words From the Dying

I worry at times that you don’t know how much I care for you. I know if I said that you’d promptly tell me to “shut the fuck up” in likely kinder words, so understanding, but I still worry. I’m not great at showing my feelings, especially recently. Opting for solitude, and little conversation. Harm often isolating me completly. Time and time again. And love for me has always been shown quietly. In shared moments, in unexpected acts of service. And maybe I’m in my own head. I likely am. But it still doesn’t feel like enough, for all you’ve done how could it be enough? But it is what I know, what feels least contrived.

Gifts as a show of love have often come with expectation, an exchange. As if money fuels fondness directly. No action should be expected to force connection, but gifts have always felt the most laced with ill intention. Similar to touch in a way. The body often craves it, the reception offers positive feelings, which in turn often become positive notions of character. And I never want to connect with someone by playing to an instinctual want. I often refuse most displays of care, because of the expectation for a return, or the way they may cause me to depend. To crave. I can return little. Nor can I handel the loss of what I’ve come to depend. So I often prefer little to none. I was raised on little. It’s what I know. But I’m leaning. It may not be hugs or gifts, but I hope you still know you mean the world. That you make me want to be more transparent with my care. 

That you’d be who I miss the most.