Please note this is a work of fiction.

I’m scared.

Not of some unknown villain.
Hiding behind my bedroom door.
Oh how I yearn that be the truth!
But It’s not.

I’m scared

of me.

I’m scared of the things I feel.
The things I think.

I have no measuring stick for the turmoil in my heart.
Or mind.

Both actually.

I cannot even bear to think about the consequences of thinking about…
Well,
Us.

Us? There is no Us.
I know that.
But I don’t think my heart does.

It must. I think.
I will it to.

So I answered you the best way I could.
My Dear Friend.
It really was not a patronizing phrase,
It was from my heart, tempered by my
Head,

What better way to express what I must feel?
The way I have to feel.
For the other is inconceivable.

Do you hate me?
I know you say you don’t and yet…
If I were you,
I think perhaps

I would.

Hate me.

I think I do.

For the way I feel.
If I would allow myself to feel.
But I must not.


I heard your words as you wrote them,
I heard the words as you spoke them.
Your voice was in my mind,
As I read them.

That tortured me.

I wanted to say ‘Stop!’,
When you said you would entomb our bond.
But then again we have no bond.
Yes. We have no bond.
No.

I can sit here and wait.
I can wait for tomorrow.
I will wait for tomorrow.
I will wait for the next day too.

Perhaps tomorrow I will be able to express clearly
What I cannot tell you.
Or the next day I will tell you what I cannot say.
Or perhaps the world will end

And then I wouldn’t have to….
Tell me. I mean you.
What I feel.

Because,

I’m scared.

Of me.