Dear A

Dear A,
I'm afraid to send you my stories.
I'm worried that you won't like me once you actually read all that is inside my head. And I know I shouldn't put that much stock in other people's opinions of my work, of me, but I do. So if I seem shy about sending you things that is why.
I felt like a little honesty. A little randomness because you have no clue where this is coming from, but I can't help it because it is something that has been pestering me since I sent you my other story "The Ring of Roses" back in February.
I don't know why I sent you my blog. It has so much more truth than I feel comfortable with you reading, but I wasn't thinking. I did it. And it has been bothering me because I care about you and I don't want you to read my stuff because I want you to still care about me.
I'm afraid you will find me a monster and run from me. Run because I have so much darkness swirling about in my head.
I'm afraid that you will realize my feelings for you, feelings that neither of us can follow because I am married (and I love him, I do) and you are so far away, not just in physical distance. You are so much smarter and wonderful. Too wonderful. And I have self-esteem issues. Issues that have become debilitating because I keep pushing myself out there. Pushing because I want to live beyond myself and because that is something you admire about me. I'm not used to being admired. I'm not used to the attention you have given me before. And it scares me, but I want it. I want you to like me. I want you to admire me. I want you to love me.
Damn it. I want more from you than I have any right to, but I need it too. And when you tease me and say "come visit" you have no idea how I soar on that, how much it makes my world brighten and then darken.