Letter to someone who won't read this, ever, and that I can't ever say this to.

I hate it. I really do. And I hate that I hate it. I wanted to be just like you, when I grew up. And in some respects, I still do. I want to be respected, both in my field and as a person, like you. I want to be funny, like you. (I'd love to be as tall as you are, but face it, I've stopped growing). I want to be good with kids, like you, and know how to fix stuff like you. I used to brag to my friends that you could fix anything.

But I want to be better than you - I want to be able to take no for an answer, to consider someone else's opinion for once, to not tread on the people who idolise me.

Because I do idolise you, you know. I always have. You were the one who carried me on their shoulders, high above everyone else, and taught me about math and physics and chemistry and how a steam engine works and how to take apart a small motorcycle engine and put it back together. You introduced me to Monty Python. You took me to my first air show. And I hate that when I say no, I don't want to switch banks (or something else I don't want to do, but that's today's example for you), you push and push and push until I lie to you to get you to leave me alone for twenty minutes, because I'm tired of hearing about how I don't care about the important things in life. I hate that I'm afraid to speak to you anymore, that I had to go outside and sit on a rock for an hour looking at the stars blurring through my tears because I didn't want to lie to you, and I was sick of backing down. I hate that I'm still crying, two hours later. You came out to me and offered me a cup of tea, to try to make me feel better, and asked if I was all right, because I seem to be so negative and uncaring lately.

And I appreciate the gesture, really I do, but I don't drink tea. Never have. I make it very well, yes, but I can't stand the stuff, feeble excuse for an Englishwoman that I am. Do you know me at all? You've lived with me for nineteen years, you really should.

What's my favorite colour?
My favorite song?
Do you know that when I was ten, I used to wake up and start crying because I HAD woken up?
Do you know why I love aeroplanes so much? That the sight of them flying fills me with a feeling of freedom and exhilaration? That I want to get my pilot's license so I can fly away too?
Do you know I like pancakes better the way you make them, and that I used to hide behind a door and watch you flipping them in the air, just because you could?
Do you know the name of the person I love? Or even that I love someone?
Did you know I love people?
Who's my favorite writer?
Do you know why you haven't read any of my poems in two years?
Do you realise that you haven't read them?
Do you know that I don't really have a best friend, and haven't in ages?
Do you know that the reason I stopped wanting to die is that I would hurt people if I did? Because I finally got it into my thick head that people cared about me, that I was worth caring for?
Do you know sometimes I still wonder?
Do you know I dance when there's a thunderstorm?
What is my spiritual belief called?
Who's my favorite actor?

I know you don't know.

Sometimes it feels like I'm not going away to university, I'm running away to university.

I love you. And I hate that I love you, because if I didn't you couldn't hurt me.

I don't really want to come back here for Christmas next year. I probably will, though. And it'll be tough, tough like this is, tough like a long weekend, when I can't escape from feeling guilty.

Dammit. And damn LJ for not letting me put this up last night when I bloody well needed to.