You ask me if I care about you and I pause.
I'm silent for so long that it becomes an answer all on its own.
You ask me if you're worth caring about and still I don't speak.
Even as my insides are screaming, reaching out, holding onto you with everything I have left.
I want to ask you if you care about me too, but I know that reassurances will spill out of you.
As if I am in need of your comfort.
You tell me that I am your safety. That I am a torch in your darkness lighting your way and I want to cry or scream or shake you until you can see me for what I really am.
A stain.
I stay silent because anything I say will keep you here.
I hope that if I'm silent for long enough you'll leave. Not because I don't care. Not because I don't want you here.
But because I am not a good person like you.
All of the pain inside me, all of the grief and the heart ache and the emptiness. It bleeds out of me and into everything that I touch and you are too good to be stained by me.
So I just shouldn't touch.
YOU ARE READING
The diary of Seth Alexander
Non-Fictionas the title suggests, this is legit going to be my diary. and yes, most diaries are supposed to be secret, but I have always been an open book. I like to pretend to be mysterious, but the people around me will all tell you that I am am someone who...
