Prologue:

I want to write a tragic love story that will have the people of the world sobbing on their knees, but in order to do so, I'd first have to know how it feels to love. Funny how what you'd planned on doing in your younger years and what you actually ended up doing were two complete polar opposites of one another, isn't it?

I've never been one for feelings. As a child, I'd learned—through the consecutive investments and deaths of my only three pets ever, all within 72 hours of each other (don't ask)—not to get too attached to anything. I'd also learned how to stifle pain, anger, fear, even happiness, because emotions show weakness and it was basically a death sentence on a platter to be considered weak in my house. Growing up in one of the roughest neighborhoods in America; in the shadow of a gruff father who was too busy saving other people's lives to worry about those of his own family; and a mother who was so constantly imbibed with alcohol that she gave less of a fuck about us than the senators who claim to think only of the people, despite how they screw their country over term after countless term with those million-dollar smiles on their faces.

But I digress with that beautiful run-on sentence. You probably don't want to hear me talk about my less-than-satisfactory childhood, nor do you want to listen to me rant about my political beliefs. You'd probably like to read a tragic love story as much as I'd like to write one.

Fat chance of that ever happening.

The funny thing is, I'd actually had an opportunity to learn what love is. A year ago to this day, I met someone who could possibly have changed my life forever. Four months ago to this day, I screwed everything up and disappeared, because hurting people seems to be what I do best and it was better to leave before the pain grew to be irrevocable. I'd tell you that story, but a heartless coward's almost-love probably isn't what you had in mind when you chose to find a romantic read.

At the same time, though, I feel like I'll explode if I keep anything else inside of me. I've kept years of feelings trapped within this heart; I don't know how much more it can take. It's already shown signs of wear-n-tear. I've felt my heart fissure; I've seen a thin but powerful geyser of emotion spill forth from that infinitesimal crack, a spontaneous burst that both relieved and frightened me at once. I don't want to experience that again.

So my question is this: to write, or not to write?

I think it's best to just let it all out one bit at a time. A page a day keeps the heartache away, or something to that effect. Maybe my tale isn't the tragic romance that I wish it could be, and maybe you won't need an assload of tissues when you reach the end—but maybe if you're like me, or even if you aren't, you'll find something worthwhile in this and in me; something that I missed or misinterpreted the first time around, something for you to hold on to when you're remembering who you left behind and wishing you weren't so goddamn lonely all the time.

Maybe I can reach you in the way I'd been unwilling to be reached, and it'll be enough to make amends for what I did to her.

Maybe.


TBC...?