There are questions I have.
Some for specific people and others, for no one in particular.
There are a lot of whys, a lot of then-what-ifs.
I've been reading a lot. And I've been getting caught in the torrent of memories. I haven't been writing. I don't know how. Or I'm a little bit afraid. I don't know.
Then I pull a book off the shelf- one I've written in years before and I understand myself a little better. I understand why certain things make me so sad sometimes now, but render me incapable of responding. And so I press down on a familiar ache and excuse myself to the toilet instead.
As it's been happening, I haven't understood. I haven't been able to say why I back away, or back down or shirk when your voice hardens or there's a sharpness to your tone.
I freeze up. And against my will (much to my frustration), my eyes fill and all I need is to get out of there for a second or two.
But then i tell you nothing's wrong.
Why do I do that? Maybe because when I remember having a voice, I was always wrong. I was always, always wrong.
I've been a little bit sad of late. In ways that just makes me want to sit by myself in little corners, or parks. Sip on wine.
I'd say write. I always do, and a part of me wants to but, like I said, I've been a little bit afraid.
But oh, maybe hearts always break themselves again along the lines of an old scar.
And that star-flung sky hanging heavy above
Was the only witness as I whispered words you would not trust
What I said was,
Say to me, all the things that you think I could never handle
I could be the anthem you sing to yourself,
When you're slipping away into sleep when the lights are so low