It's about the crazy. My crazy. All here, spilled in ink.
They'll know I'm sick.
I rock back and forth, scratching harder, crying and muttering 'Caroline' under my breath, over and over again. Like the crazy person I now know I am.
"Depression," she'd told me the first time we sat together in the dark theatre. "Sometimes it feels like it's getting worse, not better."
I'm mentally spent. Out of words. Out of thoughts. It feels so good to be this empty. It's so peaceful. Is this what it feels like to be normal?
Words terrify me. To hear, speak. To think about. Wish they didn't.
They're empty words. Of course she'll think about it.
"What does that mean to you, Sam? To be 'better'?" Sane. Healthy. Not sick. Not crazy.
I'm not allowed to want you. And you're not allowed to want me. So I'll just wait here patiently, hoping you'll break the rules.
