Would you call me, dear?
Would you be so kind, as to let you explain my wretched tongue?
Would you let me explain - with all the complicated adjectives I can muster - the being inside me who,
Despite how I pin him up

is just the most selfish, crippled thing?
Who talks so unabashedly,
With such little thought,
About things so very, very devastating to you?
Only to make you feel what's inside him,
Forgetting for a second that it's been coursing through you as a result of his actions?
These things,
Jealousy, pain, anguish, resentment, his fictional little
world turned atop itself.
Being selfish enough,
In that second,
To act as if he deserved to have his voice heard
In the midst of your sobs.
For that's when we're weakest, is it not?

Do we not all look out for ourselves?
Do you not feel what you want to feel, with whom you want to feel it, because
you
Simply desire to?

Do I not desire possession?
What makes us feel "need," when we could have never met one another?
What will we start doing
When we start looking out for each other?
Hm?

Will you desire for me to have what I desire?
Or, rather
Will I desire for you to have what you desire?
What does that silly word mean, anyway........

So
What will we start doing
When we start looking out for each other?

My biggest concern.

And what I'm starting to notice, quite intently.

Is that we struggle because we desire different things,
And it seems that we've pushed each other, somewhat unknowingly
to the point where one of us has to budge first.
Have I moved enough for you, dear?
Have I tried enough?
Because nobody is telling me
When I've tried enough - how do I know?
I should know, right?
Shouldn't it be easy, to tell when I'm "done" with a situation?
It's fucking impossible!

I don't care about the seconds that I "desire" to be rid of this situation.
Because I love you and
I'm not sure to what extent
I'm even deviating from what I desire.
Love transcends desire, does it not?
Do we not look out for the ones we love, because it makes US feel good - to love and be loved?
If I could - and I would with so, so little deliberation - I would simply give you what you need
to have what you desire.
I'd budge in a heartbeat,
without thought.
But I've been taught so much.
And
It hurts so much. So


Is it selfish to stop the hurt,
or is it selfish to let it continue?
I wish I didn't have to decide, for once, really.
I guess this is the problem with living without God.
It really is my fucking choice - and it may not matter either way.

But

Each ticking second of my choice, stress builds
I'm corned and
I just pick something.
I look at it in another light, hours later - but I chose it.
I convince myself, often lie to myself
To help me understand my choice.
It wasn't always like this, I had to make myself do this, and it's only with
a minimally-increasing degree of frequency that I apply this model

But with you, love, I could not cast you out.
I would bawl
and bawl
and bawl at the thought of deliberately hurting you.

Yet that little man inside me,
with his lack of consideration,
has done it with so little thought.
When he stops to think about it; when I stop to think about it
Feelings of a split nature
Cold, hard, unfeeling calculation and
a soft, deep, dark, glutinous pit of indiscernible melts of
Guilt, retrospect, longing, attachment, and a childish yearning for unconditional, affectionate care and
a slurry of control and jealousy congeal
Into something I'm entirely uncomfortable with.

You understand,
what it is to know what you're doing, while not knowing what you're doing
Right?



For us to be happy...
You feel the painful congealed slurry of indecisiveness, too, if not more than I.
You know, so well, that one doesn't simply "pick" a path on a whim.
Because life is short, we pause our thoughts and mental floodgates open where
Everything you could have ever thought about the situation pours in at once,
Yet, we pick them out of the slurry, one-by-one, judging each as best as we can.
At least, that's how it feels to me.
And when we pause our thoughts, or obsess, time moves on
But nothing changes, we just evaluate more answers, one-by-one, out of the slurry.
Resolve doesn't present itself,
It seems a falsity.
Is this why we nose-up
and stall?
Or are we learning to budge?



There is something at work here, between you and I, love,
That I find stronger than desire
Or guilt, or jealousy, or the little man pulling the ligaments that move
my pittering fingers.
And there is, and always will be, a part of me - not
big or little, but changing and adapting and surviving through my remaining experiences - that
Believes that we may see this stronger force at work, and it may
somehow -
we'll figure it out
we'll talk about it
we'll work on it
right? won't we?
- rise above our pools of slag;
of indefinite, indiscernible, emotion-ridden melt,
and realize this force.

Oh, I do hope so, dear.