Pieces Of Me [an online journal of sorts]

Entry Eighty-four: revelation

Shy and afraid, I asked you for a favor. Can you please stop reading my journal?

Nervous and scared of how you'd react, I was surprised when, without hesitation, you said sure.

You dropped it for a while, and I was relieved but disappointed. An internal sigh of relief while another expectation crumbled in the pit of my stomach.

Later on, though, curiosity got the better of you. Why don't you want me to read it, you asked.

Because I'm a coward. Because I'm uncomfortable. Because I can't bear the thought of you knowing me and consequently hating me.

I held my fingers still, though, already having thought this over. I'd been turning the words in my head for days, searching for the explanation that was closest to the truth and with the least repercussions, at least on my side (refer to my cowardly ways). I replied carefully, not allowing myself any pause lest I backed out and took back my words.

It's just hard for me to write about stuff the way I want to write about them when I know you'll be reading it.

Okay.

Just a simple okay. No objections, no further inquiries. I should be grateful for it, but I'm not.

Here's something I never told you: I hate your okays and your sures and your casual shrugs. They grate on my nerves. I can never tell if you mean them. Are you really as unfazed as you present yourself? Do you really take everything in stride?

Shy and afraid, I told you to stop reading this. Cagey but resigned, I knew I couldn't circle around the truth much longer. There's a price you pay when you expose yourself in the way I have. When you've got secrets folded up and stashed in the crevices of your heart like I do, you'll know that they're just another painful reminder that knowing someone and loving someone do not mean you trust them not to hurt you with their okays and sures and casual shrugs.

I know you love me; you know I trust you, with my own life, as a matter of fact. But--and there's always a but--I don't trust myself not to scare you away with my thoughts, with the words I've written here with a tightness in my chest and tears in the corners of my eyes. I've fallen apart on these pages far too many times, and I don't wish you to take notice of it any longer because, quite frankly, it's hard. It's so incredibly hard baring your soul to someone you love and loves you back, knowing that there might be a day when you confess to something that changes the way they look at you and the way their heart feels for you. It's hard because I'm mean, and I'm cruel, and I'm selfish, and I can't always hide it. My thoughts go out of control and my shameful desires are hard to discipline. Voicing them would kill us, I know it. I'm deathly afraid of it, in fact.

So I finally worked out the words and told you to stop reading this journal. Although I'd be lying if I said I hope you haven't listened to me, that you're reading this right now. Strangely, I'd be also lying if I said I wish you have. At least I have the decency to admit that I'm ashamed I can't make up my mind, though I wouldn't put it past you to have already figured it out. Somehow, my mind always flounders when it comes to you. And I know it hurts you, being caught in my arms and unable to figure out if I'm pulling you in or pushing you away. And I know I'm going to keep on hurting you for as long as your heart is hung up on mine and until my fingers stop reaching out for yours in the dark. I can't let you go. I can't even bring myself to try, and it's hurting you, I'm hurting you and I can't stop.

So here's something else I haven't told you: If I'd been completely, painfully, selfishly honest with you, I would have told you the other reason I wanted you to stop reading my journal.

It's the only way I can talk to you without hurting you.