Thursday, June 4, 2015

my body was like a harp and her words and gestures were like fingers running upon the wires.


When I say “I don’t want to talk about it,” I don’t mean I’m too lazy to say, or I’m trying to take the easy way out, or you don’t deserve to know, or I’m just being stubborn.

I mean I don’t want to talk about it. I mean it hurts to talk about it, and this is why I spend most of my time trying to bury it, and you just uncovered it, and I can’t deal with that right now. Maybe not for a few days. Or weeks. Maybe even years. I mean I can’t talk about it. I mean I can’t talk about it because I will never, ever, ever understand why it happened to me or what to do with it, and I want to let go of it but I don’t know if that’s possible yet, or ever. I mean don’t push me. I mean really, really don’t push me. I mean if I could talk about it in a way that wouldn’t rip me apart, I would. I really would. I mean I understand that you are curious and not trying to do any harm but I just can’t talk about it. Because it breaks me. Because it already broke me. Because I’m not ready.


When I say “I don’t want to talk about it,” I mean “Please don’t make me relive it.”


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