I feel like I'm glued
to the spot, caught between two things I want and I'm scared to lose at the
same time.
I'm a scaredy cat
hidden under the bed, waiting for everyone to give up, for darkness to cover me
like a blanket before I leave the safety of my six inches of dust and cobwebs
eating at me slowly.
I stare and I think and
I plan, I make up endless worlds in my head where I move and do and try.
I'm sealed tight, made
of glass and set carefully at the top of the mantelpiece, the world moving and
existing around me, without me.
And I watch and I watch
the way his fingers touch everything but me like I’m not worthy; and I'm stuck
in a loop of fear, I've been stuck since He saw me and I felt irrevocably
small, so small he could fit me in his pocket if he wanted to. I touch his hair
and I'm screaming inside because even this could break me to pieces.
Longing is the word,
tragic and stupid, fucking ashamed of itself as it should be. It lives inside
me, pushing blood through my veins fast fast when he looks at me and turns my
limbs to lead if I even think of trying. I long for him all day every day so
much I might burst with it. I could have him so close his eyelashes would touch
my cheeks, still I would do nothing. Nothing at all to bring him closer, to
become him and have him become me.
I can't live with the
finality of an answer. I wouldn't know where to go from this place I've dug
myself around or how to leave these thoughts behind without splitting in half,
crumbs of him learned and relearned trailing after me forever.
I'm seventeen and
nineteen and twenty and twenty-three and twenty-four and the earth is round and
the sea is deep and I love him.
