We all know the power and the sanctity of the Notes app. This singular app contains our most precious secrets, our innermost thoughts, our grocery lists, and the depths of our souls. Perhaps it’s the sense of impermanence that comes from typing with your thumbs, perhaps it’s the ethereal glow of the phone screen beneath your blankets as you cover your head and the light so as to not wake your roommate. Or perhaps it’s just the “lock note” feature. Whatever the reason, the notes app serves as a confidant for many of us.  

Today, I open up my very own notes app to all of you lovely people. I, like most of you, am a mentally ill bisexual. This means I have very few crushes, but when I do, oooh boy they ain’t healthy. You know how it is. But I love each and every one of them—despite the pain, despite the tears, the late nights—it was worth it. So here is a letter full of every melodramatic thing I’ve written, all the angsty teen poetic shit I have stashed away, everything I ever wrote to anyone who ever meant anything to me.  


“My notes are overflowing, bursting with pain and ideas and loneliness for you. So here, my dear, I have accumulated everything I’ve written for you. So here, my dear, is a love letter.  

I remember thinking when it was at its strongest, when it was at its worst (same thing). I remember thinking making you smile makes me want to laugh, and making you laugh is the best feeling in the world. But now I sit here trying not to giggle as you smirk, just because I made you.  

Darling, you are out of my league, comfort zone, and depth. And yet here I am, chasing you with everything I have, everything I am. I poured myself into you, and all that came dripping back out was a warped version. But hey guess what? That little bit that came back to me? That little piece of my soul? That’s the purest bit of myself I have.  

You were written in the minor key. I found you beautiful, and fascinating, and incredible, but I could never play in tune. And your pain is so romanticized, that I don’t wish your scars away, I wish them to a different place, somewhere I can lift to my lips. 

Wow I sound like such a sad little lesbian. I mean, I am, but know I’m not happy about it.  But you, my dear, are the love of my life. You, my dear, are the snippet of my soul I keep protected always. And you, my dear, are all my hope for the future.  

I love you.” 


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