It's too loud to hear you. You're sleeping beside me and I'm on my back and holding your hand on my stomach and your mouth is near my ear, I feel your breath, but it's too loud to hear you. The screaming, the confusion, the right and wrong so plainly laid out for me in a maze of insecurity. Everything makes everything too loud to hear. But mostly you and your faded shirts and that hair and those freckles on your arms and all the ways I can't stop this even when I lock myself in a closet. Instead I find myself locking myself in you and so now it's too loud to hear you even though I'm in you and around you and I'm bleeding because of you but the way we are wonít abandon me or us and I'm stuck on my back with your hand on my stomach and your breath hot against my neck and you're asleep beside me in a bed I hate, a bed I made, a bed I invited you into and now, now I canít think of anything but you and I can't hear you because it's too loud in my head and everywhere else you've planted yourself, deep inside where the light doesn't reach and you're thriving, growing, digging deeper, choking the reflection of the sun I saved for myself years before I even imagined you.
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When is it too much for you? When can you not hear me? Do you ever? Do you now? If I broke your fingers while you slept, would you feel it? Do you feel anything? Anyone? Ever?
I hate that I need you.
I hate that I need to hear you.
I hate that I can never stop feeling you.
I hate that I hate you.
"When I write, I feel like an armless, legless man with a crayon in his mouth." - Kurt Vonnegut