The words are running out. You took them—most
of them, when you told me to stop, when you told me to let this go for good.
Why is it so easy for you to walk away? You
think I’ve been in that state, slamming the door, refusing to look back,
running faster than the hands of clock tattooed on my wrist. Truth is I didn’t runaway.
I stayed right behind the door, waiting for you to open it, waiting for
you to invite me back to your arms (those arms that work better than my
blanket).
I heard knocks, I heard squeals, I heard
rages. I heard them, I felt them, but I didn’t really see them. I was at the
other side of your torment, suffering from the agony brought by that decision.
Strangers saw me. Couples laughed at me. The curious ones thought I was a brand
new story.
The silence in your room scared me. Now I am
trying to open the door that you—apparently—locked when I decided to step out
just to give us time to figure out why things are getting all fucked up between us. You didn’t
really try, did you?
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