I don’t love him in the conventional teenaged way. Or maybe just the conventional way.

Or maybe I do, but most people just don’t talk about this part, so I don’t know it’s conventional.

I don’t want to go and dates and take loads of kissing pictures and be by his side constantly. Those things would be nice, but that’s not what I’m longing for.

I want the quiet bits in between. the lying on his chest in the dark moments. The whispers in bed, my lips close to his ear moments. I want his fingers up my spine and my hands in his hair. I want gentle and rough and that love that doesn’t feel so much like love as it does like my cup runneth over. That soul filling contentment that brings so much peace.

that is what I want, and it’s a damn shame that this dance ended before it could properly begin.

I feel…apathetic.

And that’s so much worse than being happy, or content, or even sad. At least when I feel those things I have something to hold on to, something real to grip and feel and examine.

But this…this is nothing. I feel everything slipping away and I can hardly bring myself to care, save those few moments of clarity when panic takes over and I can barely breathe.

All I want is control. I want routine.

I want to own my own house. Maybe and apartment. Maybe a houseboat. When I was a baby I slept best when floating around in a  little boat in my grandma’s pool.

I want to have a job, and I want to pay bills. I want to make a grocery list every week and then go buy those things when I need them with my own money.

I want a paycheck and a mortgage and a welcome mat.

But I have none of those things, just a bedroom and a $10 a week job teaching my cousin to play the piano.

I should be happy. There is nothing wrong with my life. It’s good, all of it.

But I’m indifferent.

words are power

and I have none.