them

They think I have something to say, but that I don’t know how to say it. I hate it when they’re right. Well, mostly I hate telling them that they’re right. So I don’t. But they know.

They know too much.

I have nothing to say that hasn’t already been said. Maybe I can try to share something my own way. Maybe. And maybe someone will read it, and sit back in their chair, close their eyes, and sigh. I love that feeling—when you read something real, something that resonates deep within you—connecting you to another person’s thoughts, experiences, passion.

But there’s this thing inside of me that tells me everyday that I can’t, that I don’t matter, that I am alone, that I cannot connect to another. And then I can have a conversation with one of them, and suddenly eyes, ears, hearts connect to mine. I have reached them and they didn’t run.

Some will.

There’s one of them who smiles when he reads. She’s gone deeper, he thinks, beyond journal entries, broken hearts, funny childhood memories—to a place she rarely shares. I want to scream at him that I don’t know how to do this, that I can’t, that I won’t. But he would simply wipe the spit from his face, run his fingers through his hair, and give me that knowing smile that says—well, you shared it with me. Doesn’t he remember how difficult that was, how much it hurt, how much trouble it made, and how we’re just now picking up the pieces?! And all because I opened up to deeper places.

I’d like to claim I keep everything locked up in order to protect other people, but that would be a lie. I keep it inside to protect myself.

Sometimes I’m really a chicken-shit.