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Literature Text
Dear Beloved,
I love you. I love you with every fiber of my being. But you will never know that. You must never know that, because you cannot love me back. You are physically incapable of loving me back- and I know this as much as I know that I am physically incapable of NOT loving you. So you are never to know just how much I love you- because I couldn't bear to make you guilty about it.
I am aware that you love other people- other people who are not me. As for jealousy of these people, I don't feel it- or rather, not in the way I expect I should feel it. I feel no malice towards them, no desire to hurt them or make them leave you. However, when you once stated to me that you had broken up with a lover of yours, I felt extremely happy- happy because it meant you were single, and because it might have meant a chance to be with me. Forgive me- I know I sounded like a possessive freak right there- but I'm not, I swear- or at least, I don't intend to be. I know perfectly well that you don't and can't possibly love me- and I fully respect your autonomy in making decisions about your love life. You do not need to make me your lover solely to gratify my own selfish desires.
All I mean to say is, I know that you will have other partners, other partners who are not me. This is natural and to be expected as a matter of course; and I will make absolutely no attempt to claim you as mine for my own selfish desires. You will have your own love life, separate from mine, but I will always be there, at a distance, loving you fiercely in my own heart, making absolutely sure you know absolutely nothing about it.
It feels awful, to treat you in this way, my love. I shall make no pretenses whatsoever; I do not feel like a noble Romeo, loving you this way, nor do I see you as a cold, wicked Rosaline. Rather, I see myself as a selfish, arrogant Count Paris, selfishly wanting a poor innocent Juliet. Alas, Cupid is what he is, and this is a love unrequited.
From,
An Anonymous Admirer
I love you. I love you with every fiber of my being. But you will never know that. You must never know that, because you cannot love me back. You are physically incapable of loving me back- and I know this as much as I know that I am physically incapable of NOT loving you. So you are never to know just how much I love you- because I couldn't bear to make you guilty about it.
I am aware that you love other people- other people who are not me. As for jealousy of these people, I don't feel it- or rather, not in the way I expect I should feel it. I feel no malice towards them, no desire to hurt them or make them leave you. However, when you once stated to me that you had broken up with a lover of yours, I felt extremely happy- happy because it meant you were single, and because it might have meant a chance to be with me. Forgive me- I know I sounded like a possessive freak right there- but I'm not, I swear- or at least, I don't intend to be. I know perfectly well that you don't and can't possibly love me- and I fully respect your autonomy in making decisions about your love life. You do not need to make me your lover solely to gratify my own selfish desires.
All I mean to say is, I know that you will have other partners, other partners who are not me. This is natural and to be expected as a matter of course; and I will make absolutely no attempt to claim you as mine for my own selfish desires. You will have your own love life, separate from mine, but I will always be there, at a distance, loving you fiercely in my own heart, making absolutely sure you know absolutely nothing about it.
It feels awful, to treat you in this way, my love. I shall make no pretenses whatsoever; I do not feel like a noble Romeo, loving you this way, nor do I see you as a cold, wicked Rosaline. Rather, I see myself as a selfish, arrogant Count Paris, selfishly wanting a poor innocent Juliet. Alas, Cupid is what he is, and this is a love unrequited.
From,
An Anonymous Admirer
Literature
Emotion Roulette
I can't take much more.
I feel temper come up.
Ready to be released.
I compact it down.
I feel the sadness under it.
Always present, never waning.
It makes it hard to cope.
I work until I collapse.
Not an easy way of life.
A choice of emotions
Numbness or feeling?
The answer isn't as obvious.
They both come and go.
I'm a lost cause.
It's time for the event.
Emotion roulette!
What is the dial going to chose?
Tick, tick, tick
Ah, it stopped.
Tears form.
Of course.
Sadness.
It is.
Literature
Histories
I am Apollo in mourning, watching flowers grow eternal
from divine envy and base acts. Watching such violence fraternal
tests a god's patience, tries his heart; the pain renders him nocturnal.
History unfolds before me; I can but watch them, paternal.
I'm the emperor of cut sleeves, whose passions run high each morning
when I wake with him beside me; my priorities, sans warning,
changed on the first day that we met, and my sacrifice, adorning
the lesser in silk, changed our tongue, made idioms of adoring.
I'm obscenity in courtrooms, and moral outrage in the press.
Victorian nights fell fast then, but I beat their urge to repress,
and thou
Literature
eighty-one
melt my hard resolve into liquid change
and let my mistakes drip away from me.
let the fire burn until it loses energy and
my fragile form can finally be reshaped.
i will be sculpted into something new and
something better than i've ever been before.
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a love letter from someone who bears an unrequited love for someone. It will never be read by the person it's addressed to.
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