He’s there. Looking at me. His eyes say so much more than words could ever express. The sadness, the despair, yet somehow, behind the fog there is such happiness and light. I can’t figure him out. How can he look at me with such guilt and at the same time, with such blame. He’s angry. Furious. But why? He knows what I go through. He’s been there the whole time. He should understand. He doesn’t. Yet at the same time, how is it possible for him not to? I want so much to talk to him. To ask him how he feels, and how he would do things different, but that’s insane. I can’t speak to him any more than I can speak to an idea or a dream. The impulse to speak overpowers me, and I begin. I yell. I ask why? I want an explanation, but he can’t offer one. How is it that he can’t? If anyone knows how I feel, HE should. I continue to yell, to scream, but he just stands there, mocking me. In frustration, I punch him. That. . . was a mistake. I watched as the shattered pieces of the mirror fell to the ground, and wept as I cradled my broken hand.
Posted on my Myspace blog on May 31, 2007.
-=brett=-
