a simple poem and thoughts
My thoughts are at war.
if one were to confess what was most precious, would she who confessed be rejected? brushed aside, and what was precious lost?
if one were to keep silent, and hide such pain in sake of holding onto what was left of the sand between her fingers, (she broke the glass that held it in) would her hidden care be perceived as something less? and what if such confessions could make a positive difference, in any possible way?
always saying subtle things, here and there. seeming normal.
to care so deeply (she doesn't know why she ever doubted that) that all she could ask for was to smile for him when he smiled, no matter what the reason.
Even if he were smiling at her very own absence.
but at the very same time, the thought of standing silent, of smiling for him
when it's no longer her job to make him smile
and she sees him smile more....something yanks the air in her chest through her ribs into the pit of her stomach and forces the tears from her eyes
and she wishes nothing more to wake up from the nightmare
but better yet, to start all over again because she knows that this time, with the most special of them all, she is the only one to blame.
he's done no wrong for her to change the aching heart into consoling anger
like every man had done so before
and the worst feeling of all is to know she had done the very same to he who picked up all the broken pieces.
In the end, she knows it's likely best to silently thank him
for filling her days with laughter and letting her fill his shirt with tears
for making her feel beautiful and comfortable in her own skin
to not scare away the unrequited and to embrace these new friendly moments
with a smile masking torment until perhaps she, also, will heal anew.
if one were to confess what was most precious, would she who confessed be rejected? brushed aside, and what was precious lost?
if one were to keep silent, and hide such pain in sake of holding onto what was left of the sand between her fingers, (she broke the glass that held it in) would her hidden care be perceived as something less? and what if such confessions could make a positive difference, in any possible way?
always saying subtle things, here and there. seeming normal.
to care so deeply (she doesn't know why she ever doubted that) that all she could ask for was to smile for him when he smiled, no matter what the reason.
Even if he were smiling at her very own absence.
but at the very same time, the thought of standing silent, of smiling for him
when it's no longer her job to make him smile
and she sees him smile more....something yanks the air in her chest through her ribs into the pit of her stomach and forces the tears from her eyes
and she wishes nothing more to wake up from the nightmare
but better yet, to start all over again because she knows that this time, with the most special of them all, she is the only one to blame.
he's done no wrong for her to change the aching heart into consoling anger
like every man had done so before
and the worst feeling of all is to know she had done the very same to he who picked up all the broken pieces.
In the end, she knows it's likely best to silently thank him
for filling her days with laughter and letting her fill his shirt with tears
for making her feel beautiful and comfortable in her own skin
to not scare away the unrequited and to embrace these new friendly moments
with a smile masking torment until perhaps she, also, will heal anew.