We All Are Guilty

Sometimes I look at my hands and I can't believe I'm real. Then I remember that awful feeling that I get sometimes.

It's like somebody threw me. So hard that when I finally landed, I'm so far from where I started that I have nothing to know about.

I hate it. I hate to be in love. It isn't fun. I'm not giddy or smiling. I'm confused and twisted, like I'm in some sort of never ending cartwheel.

I write proportionally to how much I feel. And I've been feeling a lot, lately.

I want to have big conversations. I want to talk about things that don't really quite matter yet. You don't, because the future scares you.

It scares me too, but not as much as losing you does.

I want a plan. Something to cling to, since I can't float or fly.

I'm also scared to tell you these things. I'm not your solid ground.

And we're so alike, I doubt you can be mine. But that's still what I hope for.

I want to run away sometimes, but without you, I'd break my own heart.

It's safe to be alone. I never said this was okay.

It's easy to understand external things because you can put them into words.

But this is different. I can't articulate it perfectly, and no one else can try.

I fight with you because I let my fear come, disguised as agitation.

I'm still a baby, but you don't know this.

You don't know much about me. You never ask. It's safer that way.