To Her with Silver Hair
I wish this felt more romantic and less like a curse, but you’re in my mind all the time.
Like a stag wandering the forest with the skull of its defeated foe hanging heavy from its antlers, I carry you with me—out of necessity, not choice. I don’t have the strength to free myself from this mortal clamp.
Most days, thoughts of you claw at the inside of my chest, like a trapped animal trying to escape. I feel the weight of it pressing against my ribs, making it hard to breathe. I have to sit down, light a cigarette, and let the smoke coil in my lungs just to steady myself. You’ve anchored yourself to my heart, and I can’t wrench you loose.
You drift to the surface of my mind like a leaf caught under a rock I threw into the river of random experiences I call my life. No matter how far the current carries me, there you are, lodged in place.
And yet, how can this happen so often when it’s clear you only want my platonic company?
I don’t even like you that much. You’re not some radiant star or unattainable muse. You’re human, ordinary—so why do I feel like a grave robber, desperate to unearth every secret you’ve buried in yourself?
I think about how little I know of you, how much of you remains unexplored. How could I be this drawn to something I haven’t fully processed? It feels less like love and more like a sickness I can’t cure.
You’ve known me my whole life, it seems, even though I barely know you. When we first met, your eye contact was unbearable, like staring into the sun. Now, I can’t look away, and I’m baffled that you haven’t scolded me for it.
You’re so unassuming, your demeanor blending into your environment like a shadow at dusk. But your face—it shines, not like a beacon, but like the glint of a knife under dim light. Quietly striking, quietly lethal.
Your voice—it’s the sound of clouds collapsing under their own weight, falling to earth and silencing the chaos of the world. It buries me in its calm, leaving no room for escape.
You’re dull, plain, grey—so why do I feel like I want to map the angles of your hair when you’re alone at night or know the way you pull your socks on in the morning?
Everything about you is unremarkable, yet in my world, you’re the brightest beam of light cutting through the fog.
I’m writing this because I feel crazy, and I need to let it out. So let me start at the beginning.
High school crushes are stupid, and this one was my first. The first time I felt the heavy weight of wanting someone. The first time I looked at myself and wondered if I was enough—masculine enough, good enough. You were the first to make me want to feel like a man, even though I hate the idea of chasing some empty mold of masculinity.
When I saw you with silver hair for the first time, I understood why people cheat—not because they’re selfish, but because they’re running from the things they can’t have. That moment twisted a knot in my chest I’ve been trying to untangle ever since.
At the time, I convinced myself you’d never see me as adequate. And maybe I’m still not. Maybe it’s my height, my build, my income, or something I’ll never fully grasp. Whatever it is, it’s stood between us since the day we met.
You said you wanted a Superman type, and I knew then you were inexperienced. Most men would crave that, but for me, it only makes me wish you’d lived a little more. I wish you’d had your wild, reckless phase already, so I could be the one to catch you when you came back down.
I wish you understood how dirty the “clean” people are and how clean the “dirty” ones can be.
I’ve been around the block while you were playing with blocks in a field. And still, I think of you all the time—day and night, every waking hour.
You dress so modestly, but with such deliberate taste. And yes, I think about your nipples sometimes.
You are an unsolvable riddle, a haunting, a knot I’ll never untie. I don’t know if writing this will make me feel less crazy or if it will only twist the knife deeper. But here it is.
Yours, PTSD
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