Say it.

That may sound repeated and old, like a sock. You know the one. The one you wad up and throw in the corner of your closet. The one that has a hole in it, right between your toes.

I have to say, I don't care any more. I really don't.

I'm telling you, you've heard me. I don't know what I want.

Why does this feel like a weakness, when it is just honest?

But I don't care that you know what you are to me.
Maybe this is a weakness too, if everything is just a game.

I could play, but I already laid out my cards.


I just know that the times I have imploded and been rendered loveless for months and years was when I remained silent. I made a promise once, to never let what I feel thicken and suffocate me from the inside out by being ashamed of it, or by thinking that feelings were 'wrong' in some way. That they made you broken and weak, in need of fixing.

Even if I intended silence (that caustic, corrupting thing) I already have failed at this.

Say it.

I don't know what it means. I don't know what I want.
But: You are beautiful. I love you. And I'm leaving.


If I were the kind of person I should be, I would let this go now.
But ah, if I am most alive when I say yes to the most dire of risks,

how could I ever look away from this?