Posted in From the Collection of Unrequited Love

Lacy Underwear

From a Collection of Unrequited Love

Lacy Underwear

Today I am wearing black lacy underwear.
Just for the sole purpose of knowing that I am wearing them.
And underneath that?
I am absolutely naked.
And I’ve got skin.
Miles and miles of skin.
I’ve got skin to cover up all my thoughts like Saran Wrap.
That you see through to what leftovers are inside from the night before.
And despite what you might think.
My skin is soft.
And smooth.
And easily scarred.
But that doesn’t matter right?
You don’t care about how soft my skin is.
You just want to hear about what my fingers do in the dark.
But what if all they do is crack open windows.
So I can see lightning through the clouds?
What if all they crave is a jungle gym to climb.
For a taste of fresher air?
What if my melodies are the ones nobody hears?
Some people can recognize a tree, a front yard, and know they made it home.
How many circles can I walk in before I give up looking?
How long before I’m lost for good?
It must be possible to swim in an ocean of the one you love.
Without drowning.
It must be possible to swim without becoming water yourself.
But I keep swallowing what I thought was air.
I keep finding stones tied to my feet.

 

Posted in From the Collection of Unrequited Love

I am Bipolar After All

From A Collection of Unrequited Love.

By: Bridget Zhang

I wish he could see me. I wish he could see my pain. I wish he knew how sorry I am. I wish I could just touch him again. I was so close to him. I could feel his sweat. I could have grabbed him and kissed him. I want to tell him that I love him. Everything I did is about I was hurt and that I love him. He did nothing. He did nothing. I wanted to hurt him because I was hurt. I was hurt because I loved him. He did nothing. I want him to stop tormenting me. I want to stop caring. To stop feeling. To stop hurting. To stop wanting. I want to stop loving him. Why do I? Why can’t I? I am bipolar after all.

Perhaps I’ve always had those daddy issues that never got worked out. Perhaps I have never had a man to truly care and love me. Every time it does happen, I want more than they are willing to offer. I wanted them to pay the more price for what I am worth. I am worth nothing. I barely even deserve their care. As someone told me, “I am the last resort”. I am not even worth being used. I am not worth anything. I am bipolar after all.

I can slap myself in the face a thousand times a day. I can beat myself up every day. I can have him break my heart over and over again. I loved him. I hurt him. Nothing can change that. I guess I get what I deserved. To lose something I loved the most. Him. Dancing with him. Being his angel. I am bipolar after all.

I wonder if he ever thinks about me. I wonder if “they” ever talk about me. And what do “they,” say. That I am crazy? Perhaps I am. I am bipolar after all.

No one can understand. No one knows why. They only see what I have done to him. I love him. I couldn’t get him to love me back. I was hurt. I was hiding a dirty secret for years. I loved him every day and know one knew. No one ever knew.

Perhaps I wished that he would find out. Perhaps I wished that someone would show him everything I have ever written. Perhaps I wished someone would have understood. Perhaps all I have been wrong is loving him in the first place. Perhaps I want him to at least read it.

I shouldn’t have. His taken. His married. He has a life. He has a family. I couldn’t help it. I cried so much every day and every night. Every time I saw him I hated myself. I hated my feelings. I wish they would go away. I prayed to God to please kill me before I killed myself. I am bipolar after all.

every dayso hard? Why can’t I breathe? Why do people talk about me like I am crazy? They don’t even know me. No one knows me. I can pretend to be strong. I can pretend not to care. I can pretend to shine on stage. I can pretend that people are actually clapping for me. But they’re not. They are not clapping for me. They do not know me. They do not care about me. They do not see me. I don’t see me. I can be suffocating on stage, and no one would come and save me. I wonder if people will miss me if I just disappeared. To be alive is a punishment. Death would be easy. Earth is Hell. Slitting my wrists would be easy. Putting a gun to my face would be easy. I won’t have to deal anymore. I won’t have to love him anymore. I won’t have to hurt anymore. I am bipolar after all.

I can’t stop reading his text messages. Back and forth. Front and Back. I beat myself up. I miss him. I need him. I am sorry. Just tell me what to do. One look and he kill me. I loved him. He did nothing. I wanted to hurt him because I loved him. I love him. He did nothing. One look and he kill me. I could feel his sweat. One drop of his sweat on my arm as he brushes by. Being in the same place as he just feels safe. Does it? Is it safe? What are they saying? What are people saying about me when they see me? I act like I don’t care. But I do. I am bipolar after all.

Loneliness has a new meaning. When one person doesn’t love me. Forget my family, forget the few friends that I actually do have. He doesn’t love me. I can’t have him. My loneliness is never ending. I am bipolar after all.

Posted in From the Collection of Unrequited Love

From the Collection of Unrequited Love: Beautiful Pain.

From the Collection of Unrequited Love: Beautiful Pain.

By: Bridget Zhang

04.18.2017

The pain of loving him is almost beautiful. It’s a sweet feeling that just being in the same room with him is enough. He doesn’t’ have to love me back. He doesn’t have to care. He doesn’t have to talk to me. As long as he doesn’t hate me. When I know that he is okay. I am okay. There is no reason of explanation to love and not be loved. It feels okay. Content. A painful sweetness of pure content. The burning kind of okay.

I let him go. Not because of myself but because of him. When I see him it makes me too happy. It’s not pain. It makes me smile. I am the happiest person alive just to be in the same room with him. Breathing the same air. I look at him and smile. I memorize this moment and savoring it for my dreams. Reminding myself not to stare. His handsome. His tall. His broad stature. His beaming smile with kind eyes. I wonder if he is trying hard not to stare at me too. I daydream about what it would be like to hug him. To have him kiss me on the cheeks. To feel his hands brushing the hair out of my face. To dance with him again. The way he used to rub the top of my head when he was proud of me. All I could do was try to remember our last dance. To try and forget our last conversation. He was so close but so far away. Right in front of my eyes. But I can’t touch. His not mine. He will never be mine.

When he leaves me again. I die again. I would do it all over again, just to see him again. It only feels okay. Even if he is not with me. Somehow it is okay. Just to be in the room with him. It is okay. Just okay. I hate myself for loving him. I love him.

Posted in From the Collection of Unrequited Love

The Engagement

From a Book of Unrequited Love

The Engagement.

The moment I heard about his engagement, it was not by the word of mouth. Rather, it was by social media. Ironic, that in this 21st century you can still be friend with your ex- on Facebook. We never see or talk to each other personally. It is merely the superficial circles of likes and hearts. I think in a way, it was the last form of communication we had with each other.

 

He was my first love. The one who showed me how a man should be. He was silly, easy going, particular, never really knew what he wanted to do. I desperately waited. He was not there to rape me, or beat me, or to sell me off. He cared. He got me flowers. We played basketball. We both sucked at it. We went dancing. He came to my shows. We talked for hours. We lay in his dorm room skin to skin. He was the first man who showed me, love. He was my first love and my first heartbreak.

 

I was a freshman and he was a senior. After he graduated, I was a sophomore, crying over him. He went to Germany. I let him go. I was in an abusive relationship and struggling with drugs.

 

Five years later, we finally moved back into our hometowns together. I was single. He was single. Both recovering from a previous heartache. We went drinking. I watched him flirt with all the girls but me. Five years had passed and our feelings the same. Fate has brought us back together one more time. For some reason, we never could make it work. But, hell, we loved each other. And I was always the one to go home with him at night.

 

I remember when he first met his fiancé. He kept on breaking our weekend plans to spend time with her. Every week, I looked forward to the weekends at his house. A few weeks later, he tells me about her. I felt the overwhelming sensation of betrayal and the bittersweet happiness for him. He was ready to settle down, just wasn’t with me. Although he loved me. I was still a flighty one. Being bipolar makes me get attached really fast. My emotions were never dependable. I didn’t deserve him. He was so patient with me through all my useless soap operas. We had always tried to make it work. I was torn over him. My mind is a constant whirlpool. Confused.

 

He started seeing her more and more. Soon, she started to tag along in our outings. I have never seen him look at anyone the way he looked at her. I was shattered. I loved him for almost half of my life. This new girl walks in and she is not even that pretty. What does she have that I didn’t? I told him he deserves someone better than me. He deserves someone who can care for him the way he cared for me. Seven years, I loved him and I still do.

 

I told him I couldn’t see them together anymore. It was getting too hard. It broke his heart that I had to let him go. There was no way we can be “just friends”. I wanted him to be happy. I wanted him to be free. He kept on fighting for me. Every time I ignore his calls and text messages, my heart breaks. I don’t deserve him.

 

Nine years had passed, I don’t hear from him anymore. Only on Facebook did I see that they are engaged. I flipped through their pictures on my computer screen. I smiled.

 

 

Posted in From the Collection of Unrequited Love

Fuck Buddies

From a Book of Unrequited Love.

Have you ever had that mind-blowing sex? Sex that heals you, make you and hold you. The dick makes me feel like a woman. The dick that makes you feels like you are in love. For a moment, you held everything in your hands. Until it’s time to let them go. Is sex just sex? Can sex have no attachments at all? Would it be like having a dance with someone, say thank you and move on? You have held love so close that you can taste. You can smell it. But that’s just the smell of sweat, nakedness, fuck and cum.

How does he not feel this? When you have given him every little piece of you that you have left. You can’t say love through words so you speak it through each touch. Why can’t we just say “I love you”, “I miss you”, “I am thinking about you”, It’s not that hard? We are afraid of the reaction of when the words meet unexplainable responses. Before we realize it, even that meaningless sex could not happen anymore. Perhaps, we are both afraid of a broken heart.

No one wants to get hurt. No one wants to be alone. It’s the first time that “wanting” didn’t hurt that bad. Love shouldn’t hurt. Rejection hurts. The deep longing for them replaces the place of loving them. The longing is what you hold onto in the night. It keeps you warm at night as you flip through the pictures in the darkness. It is not the person we long for after all. Let’s be honest, we don’t know anything about each other but how each other’s bodies respond to touch. It is the feeling of someone so close to us that we feel that could be love. All I could feel was how cold and empty that longing was.

It is scary to say that you are in love. So, you say that it is just sex. Before you know it, someone’s heart is breaking. I would have lost myself to the utter despair of missing him. I would close my eyes and feel his touch on my skin as I remember the feeling of orgasm. I remember the jokes and laughs out of nowhere. And as the memories of your touch leave me – just as many had done before you – I began to realize that we just fuck buddies.

Posted in From the Collection of Unrequited Love

From the collection of Unrequited Love

From the Collection of Unrequited Love

By: Bridget Zhang

You will think of him every day. Then every other day, then once a week, then once in two weeks, then once in a month, and then when you actually see him, that shit starts all over again.

The thought of seeing him again makes my heartburn and my stomach twist. The sight of his tall, strong, stature and his smile beaming across at nobody. His touch. His sweat. His glance. Even his mere avoidance towards me seems so easy for him. Like I no longer exist to him and my face are just one in a million of the girls wishing to dance with him. I savored our last dance. His last touch and everything he said to me. It was some of the most painful words I have ever heard. His anger. His sweat. His name coming across my phone screen. How my heart skips a beat and I am almost afraid to read those words. It is my only memories and I can’t let go of that. I keep that memory of him because it holds me down. It keeps me aligned so I don’t get over my head with all this fame and publicity. I remember where I came from. Down there, in the dirt, as their laughing stock.

I was a story that no one cared to read. I speak the foreign tongue that no one can understand. When I close my eyes, I feel his hand on my face brushing the hair out of my eyes when we were backstage. The sturdiness of his hold on to my hand as we walk on stage together so I won’t trip and fall on my 3-inch heels. Every single conversation with him and how he made me cry every day. Now that I think about it, I wish I could turn back time and never had him know how I really felt. If I had kept my mouth shut this would have never happened. If I had kept my mouth shut would I still be with hurting with him or hurting trying to let go of him? Or would I? Would the time eventually kill my soul? Hiding my dirty little secret to the world. I would see him every day. Dance with him every day. Touch him every day. I don’t have that anymore and it still hurts. No matter what, I was going to be the target. No one said that he was the one blame. He still had his life. I lost mine. The things that these men can get away with just because they can dance.

How many months has it been? I stopped counting. He must barely think of me anymore. I am no longer his issue. He is happy to be rid of me. I am sitting here, in this park, writing this about him. I can’t imagine him sitting next to me. And I would dream about what it would be like to see him again. Would my heart break? I was so close to being able to move on. My wet pillow has finally become a bit drier and the scars on my arm are beginning to grow new skin. Then I see him, dancing, on that stage. I would get jealous of every girl that he dances with. I would look at him. With no expression on my face, no tears in my eyes and all the emotions inside my chest. I am so close to touching him again. He is right there and I can’t go there. I am afraid of him. I go back to where I came from. A hopeless girl with a hopeless romance and a hopeless heart. The things I would do to just have one more dance with him.