My words are lingering on my fingertips, they're almost a congealed state, where they refuse to drip drip out of my tips. It's so hard to let go of them. They reveal my insecurities and my pain. Sometimes I want to write about beauty and wonder. Sometimes I want to write about a fresh whiff of air. Instead, I have longing and regrets that have filled my attic and my basement, where the sutures are becoming undone. It's calling me to do something, clean it, organize it, but I keep pretending those aren't mine. I keep making excuses in my head. I always did. I always rationalized why I shouldn't do things that made me happy. Why? Perhaps I'm unsure how I would handle happiness. What is it? It's something foreign that I avoid at all costs. I walk with a defense that orbits around me at all times: happiness not welcome. I think I might tremble and lose consciousness. God, I'm horribly dramatic. But yes, I'm scared of happiness. I hate myself for being scared of it. I pranced around you so many times - I've fully realized now. I hate myself for it. I'm sorry. I was the worst. Yet, after all these years I want you, and no one else. No one has that place in my heart like you have. I'm such a stubborn idiot. You already broke my heart, as surely as I have yours - now I know, and I might be horrible at these things, but I'll finally let you know.
Shit. I'm gonna panic.
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