It's wasn't until when I realized I went to bed that night and really felt my heart beating again. I stared at the ceiling fan in my dimmed room wondering what this meant? What do I do? For hours I went back and forth rubbing my eyes, trying to write to get the shit out of my head. Nothing came out, nothing but something. I was in shock, my heart raced as I thought about it, as I said it to myself. Whispering so maybe I would not hear it. My body felt chill, feverish and urges arising to just tell someone. Who? Someone that I could possibly avoid that wouldn't give me a lecture and those most promising words that friends give you when they have no advice, "be careful is all I'm saying".
I didn't go to bed that night, in fact I didn't sleep that entire weekend. I tried to come up with a plan on how I can get this off my chest, how can I say this and not sound like a complete idiot? Well, I didn't. All I have ever done was wrote about in my poetry but never really said those words. Everyday I became a little more nervous and anxious to see the look, to hear the thoughts, to remember what I was wearing, to keep the scent in my nose and to remember how my body felt...on the day I say it. My plan never played out, but everything happens for a reason.
1 comment:
like a moth to a flame. Its a delicate line you have to walk to stay close enough to the fire without getting burnt.
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