I hide what I can’t say behind words, words, and more words
I’m an open book whose pages stick together
You can read many words, but only describing the scenes I choose
Control isn’t love.
Self editing is inescapable. (And who is to know it’s edited when I let many escapes slip through?) (I’ll tell you of my pettiness, but not of my fear) (I’ll regale you with seemingly unfiltered thought tangents, to ignore what’s been festering on my heart longer than I let myself remember)
The devil, they say, is in the details. Mine is in the footnotes, the parenthetical asides that don’t get to be read aloud.
But those words make me cry. Those words close my throat and threaten suffocation. Those words can, and nearly have, killed me.
How can I ever give them to someone else?
(without) Love, February