I always just keep it in. Ok, I do write about it so I guess that’s not keeping it in, but talking is sometimes different than quiet words screaming their meaning into muted spaces. Freely speaking my longings into more than just empty screens and blank pages. And I want to say that you disappeared again today. I spy on your life because I can’t be part of it. But you’ve deleted your image from my view, from everyone’s view. And I’m in pain because I don’t know how you are. And that’s so stupid, so ridiculous. You don’t wonder how I am or care if I’m alive. I write and write with bleeding fingers and you say you never forgot but maybe you lied. But you probably didn’t. As much as I want to say you don’t love me, that’s a lie too. After so many years, what motivation would you have to lie? None. So you told the truth and you keep telling the truth every few years. You cast my life into a tornado spinning wind-torn fracas of love and daydreams. For one day, you tell the truth, and you delete me, block me, ignore me until you don’t. You wipe yourself from space only to re-enlist later. You are flighty and strange and cowardly and confused…and you are sweet and talented and bold and strong when you don’t even see it and I am broken here, my beating heart pulsing and shaking and wilting on the floor. And I can’t see you and I am sad.
Maybe this is why I don’t talk about it. It would sound so desperate and sad and selfish.