letter to an untraceable love by isabella gonzalez

It hurts to know I only like you, love. 
There, there’s no potential measure of love unless 
we cave into honesty 
and pour our truest forms into one another. 

I think that devilish cockroach of a man stripped me 
of my capabilities and transformed me into a being 
adjacent to myself — nothing entirely new, no exciting mystery,
but a discolored, mutated thing with traces of nostalgia, the worst
kind of stage. The one which you’re too familiar with to dream
and yet the creature that leaves you mistaken more than you’d 
expect or enjoy. A mind that has been recalibrated and rewired but
inside a recognizable skull. 

Or perhaps I’m fooling myself and attempting to seek out a scapegoat
or ominous evil to blame. See, that’s a talent I confess to possessing:
I know how to walk into a room and strategize in the name of the future.
That’s a lie. Strategize in the name of a future self. 
Even if the room is nothing more than a confined cubicle and a parchment
white framed mirror, I will point to the meek figure in the reflection
and cry imposter. 

A therapist once told me that my behavior is one of a politician. The face I wear
is anxious, bubbly, and caring except my heart is tricky and only selects few
to truly dance in its space. If some of these guests misunderstand how to treat and
take care of the grounds, the heart will have no choice but to reboot itself.
I could be mixing up internal organs, however. For all we know, the heart could be
innocent and all-welcoming, yet the mind is stubborn and unforgiving. One is
certainly to blame. 
Don’t act so surprised. I simply cannot address myself as a single unit.
That involves too much responsibility and acknowledgment of the self, and
it’s borderline hopeless. 

Whenever I believe I’m close to, not even solving, but identifying the puzzle’s
image, it grows distorted and hides from me. The chase is exhausting. And boring.
It seems no matter how many words I paint onto the screen, nothing accumulates
from the letters. Just as children prefer visiting playgrounds rather than their
personal backyards, I long to escape and play pretend in another soul.
When I’m there, I pray something will stick to me and I’ll learn how to become
a spirit that feels whole and satisfied. 
But a relationship should not be a connection where one clings 
to another in an effort to shy away from themselves. You have no
place in serving as a prison, and I have no authority in 
assigning you as my guard. Even if you wish to perform as my knight
in shining armor, I’m too inexorable and refuse to take off the uniform.
I cannot allow myself to relinquish control. 

I can’t offer myself to love’s will consciously. Too many ghosts follow
after my path already. Thus, I resign myself to a position of admiration
from a distance. I like you and keep careful watch on the feeling because
I care enough to protect you from pain designed in my likeness, out of
fear my love will tarnish you. There’s no need for another player in
my dramatics. There’s no need for another liability. 

You say one thing, but you don’t write it in blood for a reason. 
Your heart bounces from each new idea with curiosity and a playful
nature. You waste no time in the art of dwelling. One ounce of assurance
and forgiveness can easily push you in the direction of your next quest.
I don’t blame you for this since you never told me otherwise, and I decide
to not wither my energy in trying to change you as a result. 
You’re confused now, but I’ll watch the recognition and understanding
sprout in your mind as you go. I’ll wear some sadness in my smile and
place a sparkle in my eye and let you believe you came to this conclusion
all on your own, so there was no potential measure of love left to question or regret. 

I guess that means this message suits the trash can, no? 
Unless you wish for that potential, you’re a phantom, 
tracing meaningless symbols printed into a canvas 
meant to convey carvings in a dead tree.