I have so much love to give, and nobody wants it.

Hi.

This is a love letter. Well, at least, it’s a letter about love. I don’t know if that counts. Do you?

Apathy is the opposite of love. It would tear me up inside to think that you weren’t in love with me, weren’t in hate with me, but were simply just indifferent. I’m not strong enough to handle that.

It’s your responsibility to make sure that doesn’t happen. We took vows to make sure that’s not the case. You said words. They came out of your mouth.

I know I deserve love. It’s a human right. If not from our parents, then at least from someone like you. We talked about this a lot.

You don’t have to earn something that you deserve. That’s not how that works. It would be different if love wasn’t unconditional. I want to just take it for granted.

There are all these other feelings mixed up in my infatuation. I’m not able to tell them apart. You’re a robot for being able to tease out the distinction.

I’m angry at you for not giving a shit. I’m sad that I don’t have what I deserve. I’m ashamed that none of this even makes sense in my head, and I could never bring myself to tell you that.

I want to give love. I am a generous person. I know that I can do it. It should matter more that I don’t know how.

Things only come to you when you’re not looking. Matters of the heart don’t make sense. Loving someone isn’t a skill, it’s something you do with your whole being—and then if it doesn’t work, it wasn’t love.

You told me there was a spectrum to these things. You treat everything like a skill to be improved or a talent to hone. You told me you practiced how to love someone. That is the least romantic thing I ever heard.

But you pulled me back in with stories of bold gestures and all-knowing thoughtfulness. You surprised me by showing that my fairytales were real, and they existed in tales you told about what you did for someone else.

So you should do that for me. All the time. And never stop. It wouldn’t be right. You agree with me when I say that I deserve it.

You know that I would love you back. There’s no doubt in my mind, my voice, my heart. I’ll say it over and over and over, as many times as it takes to prove it.

I’ve never thought about what it means to love someone. You keep telling me to slow down and think, but I don’t want to. I want to feel, to be set on fire, to be stimulated in corners of my soul I didn’t know I had.

You force me to take responsibility. Devotion is such a gorgeous word—but I don’t know how to act it out. I think if I say it enough times then it becomes real because we both believe it, you know? You can speak things into the world like that.

Don’t tell anyone this, but I don’t know what it would mean to give my love to you. I know how to love you—that’s a feeling. I don’t know how to show it. I don’t know how to make good choices that support you. I don’t think I understand anyone’s mind—and especially yours—enough.

You’ve told me that’s okay, and that you won’t judge me while I learn. Life has so much baggage. I have so much baggage. How do you get past any of that? Why does anyone bother?

Other married couples are stupid. They don’t understand the toll love takes on a person. Or they had less work to do. I hate them for that.

I’m trying as hard as I can to think about what you want, but it doesn’t work if you don’t tell me. I don’t know how to read your mind. You’ve never asked me to do that either, but I have to start somewhere.

The things you have told me are just words. You can say ‘self-actualised’ until you’re blue in the face but I don’t know what the fuck you’re on about.

Asking me for consistency doesn’t make sense when I don’t feel consistent. I’m scared sometimes. I’m confident sometimes. The world moves and I don’t, or vice versa. You can’t just tell me to close my eyes.

I just wish I knew what you meant. It would be cool if you could beam your experiences into my brain so that I’d know what you know. You tell me history scared you, but it can’t be so bad. You seem fine to me.

I want to be everything to you. You need to tell me how to do that. Everything should be easy.

Why does none of this make sense? Why does nobody love me? Why don’t you love me? Even if you do, I don’t know that I can count it. It looks the same as the last time I loved. And that was awful. I hated that love. Not for me, that.

There’s something more to this, there has to be.