Life - Falling Out

Life - Falling Out

You asked me once. To not share my writing with you anymore. It was too heavy, it hurt too much. It was too emotional for you.

So I stopped.

I never mentioned my writing to you again.

But I did not cease.



The writing is me. Is mine. Is my life in words, painting a picture at once resplendent and agonized. Honest of structure, imperfect of form. It is my art. It is my skin, stretched tautly and drawn across in all its blissful anguish.

For a long time, I wondered if you read it anyway. Away from the pressure of my asking your thoughts. Detached from my curiosity about what you made of this raw version of me. But now, I have slowly grown to become sure that you do not. I wonder if I am uninteresting to you. Or if this part of me is somehow intolerable. Is my skin too yellow? Are my experiences too far off of whiteness?

Is this part of me, this place of honesty and pain too much to confront. Does it inspire no wonder, and maybe it is too fundamentally indulgent.

I being me, have never mentioned my writing to you again.

But.

I find it hard to stop wondering.

About.

What might have been.

Instead.

But I...being me...will never mention it again.