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Beneath the Stillness

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It’s always something with you, isn’t it?

I’m either not ready or I’m too eager to possibly know what I’m doing.

I’m too young,

You’re too old,

We’re no good at this,

The friendship matters more.
You want me to remain objective,

To see clearly,

To use my head to think.

Yet I cannot get past the calls that come from you daily. Or the random text messages about nothing in particular. I know you have not promised me anything, but you have asked about my dark secrets and deep fears. I barely know you myself, but I am known by you so well you can tell when I am holding something back.
I’m supposed to be myself here. You say you like that.

So you let me rant and rave,

While you listen,

And collect pieces of myself,

And store them in a box,

To pull out at your own time;

To remind me that you still recall what I said about this or that.

To show me just how good a friend you are.
This is a safe space, you say. There is no judgement here. Whatever happens, we will always remain friends. Yes, even if we cross that line, you say. I don’t want to believe you, so I stop listening and start to remind myself how often this was said or insinuated before it turned out to be untrue. Because I do not know how to give myself where love has not first made a home.
My intuition tells me that something isn’t sitting right. There stands this great imbalance between the two fields we exist in.

On the one hand, I am all too trusting with my truths, all too willing to admit them when given the chance.

I forget too easily that my vulnerability isn’t worth every curious ear, including yours.

On the other hand, you are too guarded with your truths. There is always a next time to discuss them.

It is always time for bed or the next duty when we begin to scratch at their surfaces.
What howling ghosts lie beneath your calmness?

What tales refuse to be released between your tightened lips?

How am I to know you if you will not be known?


February 4th, 2018, 2220 hours

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