Everyday, I toy with writing the things that cannot be said.  That should not be said.  The kind of truths that hide on a half-willing tongue.  But something about the premise is unworthy--either the particular piece of honesty, or the audience.  In this case, I won't tell you which.  That point should be obvious.  And somewhat moot.

 

Moot.  I wonder if you know what that word means; I wonder if you feel the syllables as viscerally as I do.  Surely you've at least heard "Jesse's Girl?"  But I wonder.  You once told me that I was the smartest girl you'd ever known--and only now I've stopped to consider what you might've been measuring me against.  I don't question your intelligence.  You're smarter than me in many different ways, some of which are distinctly detrimental.  Beyond this facade of confidence, we are both somewhat self-loathing.  That's an entirely different tale, though.

 

Everyday, I have to stop myself from inscribing a multitude of truths, from crafting a world out of a soul you've only glimpsed, from the skin you've only briefly grazed.  Everyday I keep myself from writing out some half-assed SOS.  From telling you off.  From telling you I miss you.  From telling you all the impossible things that I feel, at once.  I could break your heart.  I could break everybody else's heart, too.  But I'm only self-destructive, creating my own chaos, losing myself to that sweet disarray.  No, I'm not perfect, but human.  I can imagine the wreckage, the brilliant ruin.  And I won't have it.  So I don't say anything.  I don't tell you that I love you.  That I hate you.  That you make a clumsy, retched heart-thief.  Or that I know, now, that I should never have trusted you.  Because I was willing to forgive.  To forgive too much.

 

I'd like to think you might regret it, someday--those haphazard scarlet symphonies that rang out, starkly, like blood that echoed in ferocious veins.  Those words you choose deftly, those lies you unfolded, so sweetly.  I'd like to entertain the thought that it was your heart that shone briefly, like a quickly falling star.  But I don't want to know if you ever wake up and decide you love me.

 

Because I can't forgive you, anymore.