#37. why do you cry? what makes you cry?

February, 2006

I don't know why it is that I never write about you. I got so caught up in making everything just right and forgot to invite you into that side of me. I get so caught up in trying to intellectually understand the workings of my heart, what you bring in and what i drain out, that I just forget to let this emotion go.

This emotion gets so caught up in the secret subconscious games of my twisted mind that it forgets what it means to be pure. The world, the people I interact with on a daily basis, or at least often and deeply enough to affect my fragility, will never come to the fine point of understanding or agreement. For you, of course, this is okay. For me, it leaves unwritten words circulating through my blood like some itchy infection:

I am sorry. I love you, I'm sorry. I say it a million times, over and over. I will never accept myself like this, like anything, and it just isn't fair. You cannot be punished for the whiny, depressed, unstable shit you stepped into; it isn't your cross to bear. Now you must find some flourishing grass to wipe your shoes, and look up at the sunshine. Just don't look at the stars at night, or they might remind you of my pointy edges.

Of course, you will say the right comforting things, but only to deceive us both. Only to get through the day and the night and the day.

And you know the best way to carry on.