Giving

A has given me back my blog.

I think he's giving up. I told him that I'd already hacked into the account and changed the password, that I just wasn't writing anything because I'd promised I wouldn't.

But I'm lonely. Suddenly my days yawn open into long silences, gaps of non-time, and moments that don't fit. It disorients me, as if my thoughts don't have a place to go anymore. So they tumble around my head, illogical and contradictory, questioning, dark and tempting and unholy.

And he said, sadly, 'then write in your blog; do whatever you need to.'

I don't want him to feel like this, but he's tired of half-truths, of my eyes not meeting his, of contradictions; laughter, screams, love, hate, joy, rage, fear, spilling from my mind like bursts of oil and water, immiscible, jostling for space in our little home, filling the spaces between us, pushing and pushing and we run and we run and we run. He's tired of nothing making sense, of never knowing where he's at, who I'm going to be that day; it drains him. It drains us both, but it's newer for him, and hard.

He's tired of trying, and he's tired of my sadness. He's wonderful and kind; flawed but strong, and with a good, good heart the size of the ocean, and it's not his fault I'm like this. He loves me and loves me and loves me, and I still can't accept it. I'm just on this constant, frenzied, wearying search for what I can change, how I can be better. Yet at the same time, it's a search to destroy myself. What am I even punishing myself for anymore? It's been so long. But I can't remember anything else; I don't remember how to be different.

What if one day he sees me, really sees me and the sight of my flesh, moreso, my soul, my mind, drives him away? But I need to be better, perfect even so that never ever happens. And if it does, I will have already destroyed myself beyond the point that anyone else can destroy.

To be perfect on the outside and empty on the inside - surely in this way we are protected.