I've always wanted to tell you,

I can imagine kissing every inch of your soul

consuming you

and being consumed by you

The yearning I feel for it frightens me -

I run from it.

never quite creating the reality

in which everything I desire can take place

I guess I am a masochist.

You are an entire world I haven't let myself explore.

I would say I am sorry for it,

but you don't even know it

because I've never told you.

#LGBTIQ

“I’ve always wanted to tell you...” I hesitated.

He looked up from his phone at me and raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow, “Yes?”

“Iknowyouareprobablygoingtohatemeforthisbut——”

“Woah, easy, tiger. Slow down, sweetheart. I know I’m beautiful but you really don’t have to be so anxious,” He half-smirked, half-said.

“Fine,” I sighed and took a deep breath.

“Yourzipperisn’tzippedI’msorrynowpleasedon’thatemeIdon’tlikeyouactuallyitsjustthatIfeel

superbadforyousincethismorningamojgotherthingsokbye.”

And I ran.

Day by day everything became harder and harder.

With those cruel smiles they insulted me bullied me infront of so many people, without a sign of sympathy. Under the name of "Equality"

I was depressed, struggled for a long time.

Still they never ever gave a single thought about put the fullstop for all those things.

Others said I overthink and overreact, I know I wasn't.

Just do whatever they asked others said, just be their puppet; others suggested.

They're doing this for our own sake, for establish a good culture because we're graduates, we're intelligent than normal people. This the culture of university. Without disobey just obey it, even though legally it defined as a abuse. Others said.

Why I should stop?

Why they can't say to thouse freakers to stop?

Why they said they're bullying for our own sake?

Why they just let some freakers to overpower them?

What the meaning of intelligence?

I want to tell those control freakers, I'm not that kinda person who let anyone to overpower me without any good reason.

For others who try to shield those freakers; I've always wanted to tell you, all of you together completely destroyed so many people's life abandoning them alone and forcing them to be a coward. I HATE YOU more than I hate those freakers I HATE YOU, for making those freakers more stronger.

i’ve always wanted to tell you

“thank you”.

for you were by my side,

giving me all my space,

but offering a hand when i needed it.

i never said it,

because i thought

you‘d think i‘m good,

that you’d pull away.

i thought “thank you” might be

like “goodbye”.

so i said nothing.

and you came closer,

when i needed it most.

you’ve been saying all the right things.

now i feel the “thank you”

even more.

the words are on my lips

but

i don’t allow them to reach you,

for i think that

you‘d think i‘m fine,

and now it’s so nice

in the embrace of our never ending

conversation,

i don‘t want it to

stop.

so maybe,

maybe,

i‘ll wait till goodbye with my

“thank you”.

Her body lay limp on the ground surrounded by broken china plates, books, and toppled furniture, covered in blood and bruises. Her head was turned from the only other person in the broken room. He laid next to her, praying, asking yet again for forgiveness. Head in her hand, tears hot on his cheeks, anger, sadness, and guilt beating his brain. He’d hurt her before. Thrown stuff, screamed names, threw punches and kicks, broken her mind, heart, and body. Now she was fading. He hadn’t meant for this. He loved her. Didn’t he? She loved him. Even though he broke her.

“I don’t know why I loved you.” She whispered through swollen lips below a broken nose and black eye, “You hurt me again and again, but I forgave you. I forgave you and look what you did to me. I don’t know why I loved you, but I did. And if were able to live to tomorrow, I’d probably love you again.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I’ve always wanted to tell you one thing, but I was too scared to tell you, now there is nothing more you can do to me because I am dying anyway. Sorry is a promise. Sorry means you feel guilty for what you have done and that you will try your hardest not to do it again. Sorry is useless and means nothing if you do not keep that promise.”

He laid there silently tears leaking from his eyes until she moved her wet hand. She placed it on top of his head and stroked his hair.

“One promise?”

“Anything.”

“Find help. I don’t want you to hurt anyone else like you hurt me.”

Her hand ceased moving and she closed her eyes.

It went by faster than I thought

But know that I stop and see

I know that you were too far gone

To see that your ignorance

Would lead you to the place

You swore to yourself you would never be

I've always wanted to tell you

That you hurt me in more ways than one

I've always wanted to scream

Ask you why you shunned me

But now I understand

You wanted to be notcied

So you forgot everyone else

You wanted to be loved

So you loved only yourself

You wanted to be praised

So you forgot to be humble

While I was standing alone

Looking for the reason

No one would look at me

Now our roles are switched

with one exception

I know to look for the little guy

The shy girl in the corner

Becasue I've been there before

So now I want to tell you

Thank you for the lesson

I know now that it was important

For me to feel lesser

So now I can understand

That it is important to

Watch for those people

Who felt like I did

And show them that they matter

They don't have to be a popular kid

i've always

wanted to

tell you.

but i couldn't.

because i

thought up all

of the possible

outcomes and

they were all

horrible.

i practiced

saying it to

stuffed animals

i'm too old

for

but something

in their

beady black eyes

like beetles

reminded me of

you and

my words

slowed

stuttered

and stopped.

if i told you

everything would

change.

so i don't

tell.

my words

get stuck in

my mind

they bounce

around and

i can't help but

regret.

Going to go ahead and do the all too obvious response to this challenge.

The waiter places your escargots down in front of you. You say nothing, but keep your head bent, as if demure. We're surrounded by chatter. You chose the first thing you laid your eyes on, flung the menu down impatiently. The table cloth is nice, linen, but not nice enough for you to be staring at it this hard. Between us, there’s a candle nearing the end of its life.

“Excuse me, more of the premier cru, please,” I say.

“Certainly, sir.”

The waiter fills my glass with wine. We chose ig because it was at the top of the list. Because we’re supposed to be celebrating. It tastes like nothing when I'm the only one drinking.

Your gaze leaves the table cloth, focuses on your untouched glass. You look so vacant I could scream. Instead, I smile. I clear my throat.

“A toast. To you, darling. To seventeen years of happiness.”

You raise your glass. Still quiet, impassive. Happiness, my arse. I swivel the wine round in my mouth. I’m going to need every drop tonight.

My entrée arrives, steak with bits of cucumber. Garnish.

Neither of us are particularly pleased with our choices. You raise your knife and fork and start eating. In silence.

My eyes stray toward the couples, the families, the friends. They are tables of chatter and amusement, of comfortable silences and feet touchers. Loud laughter and low voiced conversations. Wonder what anniversary they’re all on. I’ll have to warn them not to go past fifteen.

You slap your knife and fork down. What’s the matter now for goodness’ sake.

Perhaps we knew, even when we first married, that we’d chosen wrong from the menu. We justified it. Wealth, glamour, beauty. Good breeding, as they say, covers a multitude of sins. We could show each other off and expected from life similar things: nothing but the best, if a little reliant on prescribed drugs and alcohol.

I can see you're irritated with me. Which I find surprising. Over the past month, I have been an irreproachable husband. Attentive to your every wish. I booked your therapists and your trip to Barcelona, encouraged you to go to the spa. You, on the other hand. Ungrateful and lazy. We’ve eaten takeaways and ready-meals for not weeks but months. I’ve not complained once. And we haven’t had proper sex since Louis was about twelve, and he’s just got his provisional driving license. Not that I particularly want to, but you could have at least offered me a hand job. Even so, I’ve never held any of it against you.

“I was looking through some paperwork today,” you say.

“Oh yes?” I’m relieved. Conversation. Wonderful to know you’re still capable.

“Hmm. Who did you pay ten thousand pounds to in January?”

“You went through my office?”

“Also. Funny. A lot of trips to jewellers. Didn’t know you bought your mother so many diamonds.”

I can see a maze rising up around me. Every turning’s a wrong one. I clear my throat. I have imagined a scene like this. I’d be calm. Confess everything. I’d be honest. I’ve always wanted to tell you. Oh, darling.

I prefer you silent. We stare at each other. Any fool can see there is no love left. So many evenings, so many days and nights wasted. Avoiding each other, I'd stare at my screen while you hid outside and smoked. There are questions and waves of anger and fears in your face. Perhaps restaurants are too dangerous. We’re left with the miles in between us, the space left by the love that used to be there. I’ve spent so long opposite you.

Do we have anything left in common?

“Why do you always try to humiliate me in public?” I ask. “Why can’t a man keep his affairs private?”

“Can’t a wife know what her husband’s affairs are?” you quip.

My mind begins to spin a lie about some surprise, problems at work, a weight loss retreat I was ashamed of. Anything. The words would come so easily, the charm would pour right through my nostrils. Would you know the difference? Would you notice?

I almost wish you would.

You see, darling, in my heart I’m a hopeless romantic. I want to love you. If I could find a manual or take a pill which made us both head over heels for each other, I would. I don’t like all this messy divorce talk. Lucy this, Alfred that. Seems very common to me. People should stand by their partners no matter what. Stick to a decision, damn it.

Fifty, twenty years ago, everyone would have expected this of me, expected you to stay. It wouldn’t have been a question of pride, of forgiving me. I’m not a dishonest man. I’m just a man, a very ordinary one, who wishes to love and be loved by many women at once. And who happens to know many women who are agreeable to this same opinion. Most men have done what I do and far worse, for centuries.

If I could just be sure you’d be reasonable about this, I wouldn’t be so hesitant to tell you. I always intended the truth to come out. Trouble is, can you say all of this to your wife, in this day and age? What did you think was happening when I went on all those business trips?

“What would you say if I told you that my friend Leo Szymmons has a start-up company which sells diamonds made from fossil fuel waste? That his company lost all of its money, and so I was contacted in order to help him get back on his feet? I’ve been buying and offering the diamonds out at meetings to showcase his ideas.”

“Oh,” you say.

You look as if you’ve bought it.

I’m mildly disappointed, but triumphant.

“So next time you jump to conclusions, remember that I am your husband and that you owe me the benefit of the doubt.”

We eat the rest of our meal in silence.