The Very Thought Insults Me

It's only on the especially bad days that I think of you and all that you stand for.  When things are going real good, I can barely recall what color your skin is.  And even when the room is white and bare, and we are the only inhabitants, I still find it hard to see you.  You're like the wrong side of the moon, the side that's always facing out into the rest of the universe.  And I understand your wistful way of constantly seeking out a bigger something, but I want you to turn around so I can remember the little things about your face that I've forgotten.  Like your broken smile and your quiet eyes.  I just want you to understand me like I long to understand you.

Like the way I always sing along when I know the words.  And how I wear multiple layers of clothing even in the summer.  And how my food can never touch, unless I think it'll taste better that way.  You should know my middle name.  Not my real one, but the one I made up in 5th grade and had everyone believe was my middle name for 6 years.  You should know the spot in my backyard where I go to sleep when my parents are fighting.  And the place where that bird fell after being shot by my grandpa.  

What I'm trying to say is that I know I don't look like love to you.  I don't think I'm working to become that either.  What I am is everything you've scolded me for, and it hurts that you don't even blame yourself.  I'm unresponsive, and passive aggressive.  I'm in desperate need of therapy.  And I'm in desperate need of concrete.  Something solid to lay down on, because I'm tired of these feathers and pillows, like the strangers that say, "Oh, I pity you so."  Well, I don't need your pity.  Please, pick it up off the floor.

I'm ready to leave you, darling.  But I've still got some things to take care of.  I've still got some things to say to you.  

But not now, and not out loud.