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There are so many things I want to say. I want to say how much the time we spend together is precious to me. I want to say the little things matter the most to me. The little things like my lover coming home exhausted and spending in an evening in my company. The little things like the way she makes sure I get a “proper home-cooked meal.” The little things like the fact that whenever I launch into one of my tirades, driven by my irritating inferiority complex, she will just patiently wait until I’m done, no matter how much she wants to blow up as well. I want to say that I never mean all the times when I’m so obstinate, and hateful, and rude, and, God, I want to be held in her arms but my pride won’t let me. So, in the end, my fears let me piss away all the things I want to say.
There are so many things I want to say. I want to say how his fears are understandable when considering his past, but unfounded when considering his future. I want to say how the little things I do for and with him are because he matters the most to me. The little things like making sure he gets a good morning and good night text each and every day. The little things like understanding that when he says he “needs space,” he really needs me to sit near enough that he feels my presence, but far enough that we’re not touching. The little things like knowing how to read the emotions in his eyes instead of the words that spew from his lips. I want to say that his love-engulfing pride is simply the first step on the road to renewing his self-confidence. But, in the end, his doubts consume him and they throw back into my face all the things I want to say.
There are so many chances I’ve completely blown when handed so freely, so preciously to me. Chances like the time my pseudo-girlfriend—when we were first talking—had offered to spend the night for the first time because she could tell I was lost and confused by my circumstances. For a couple of weeks, I acted as though she was a stalker trying to hone into the finer details of my life so she could eventually wear my skin. She simply laughed at my words all the way up until I finally relented and let her in after a shitty day, sending her back out the door before the coffee was done. Chances like whenever she wants to hold my hand across the table or cuddle on the couch during a movie, and I not-so-subtly avoid her touches. Chances like when she wants to surprise me by helping me with the dishes or a sunflower on the driver’s seat of my car, and I respond by annoyedly informing her I can take care of myself. Chances like arguing with myself for the last eleven months that we shouldn’t move in together because of our different tastes in music, and furniture, and color schemes, and hobbies, and the horrid creature I need to divorce—and my fears win out. For, in the end, my selfishness lets me piss away my many chances.
There are so many chances we’ve let pass us by. Chances like the domestication of attempting to purchase his needed groceries whenever he was too ill to go out himself and I was already at the store. Chances like petty, loving, arguments of who’s last had the remote, or who left the toilet seat up in the wee hours of the morning (Seriously, why would I? Haha)…whether we have enough communication in our relationship. Chances like the much-needed affection following the heat of making up after a new argument, when my love turns away from me in shame and an effort to not be held, as though he finds himself unworthy of any adoration. Chances like the night we were laughing, and he was so open to me that I suddenly blurted out how much he meant to me. He quietened, and a flurry of emotions and thoughts passed over his face, each moving to the next before I had an opportunity to decipher their meanings. Without warning, he told at me to leave his house, and before I could banish the doubts in his terrified eyes, I found myself standing on his porch, staring at the other side of his front door. Yet, in the end, his desired silence on deeper conversations and feelings throw back into my face our many chances.
There are so many questions I’m almost certain I’ll never ask. Why me? (All I’ve ever done is treat you worse than the ground underneath us. No amount of trauma in my past can possibly justify or defend what you’ve gone through all these months because of me. I’m no better than those in my history.) Why do you let me treat you this way? (I’ve brushed away your beliefs and opinions, and compared you to a wife that never considered me the human being you always saw in me. I’ve returned your painfully cheerful grins with sullen glares, and responded to your expressions of tenderness with gestures of indifference and “whatevers.” Because I’m no better than those in my history.) Why haven’t you looked for better? (You deserve better. You deserve all of the other men and women who have thrown themselves at your feet, hoping for your favor and affection. You deserve the world, conquered and handed on a tray, as a gift of your worthiness, an exhibit of the merit of your compassion and mercy. Me, I’m no better than those in my history.) Is it some kind of demented devotion? (It seems to me that we’ve fallen victim to the poison of a relationship based on Stockholm Syndrome. It seems to me that we’ve fallen victim to the delusion of thinking it could become Lima Syndrome. But I’m no better than those in my past.) …Do you want to marry me…? (You shouldn’t—I likely won’t change. The type of love I’ve known in life is tyrannical, and cold, and an effort to strategize the winning strike first. It deplores vulnerability, and communication, and is a mercenary out to kill one another’s trust in themselves and each other. I’m just as selfish as those in my history.) And, in the end, my silence lets me piss away the questions I want to ask.
There are so many questions I’ve almost had the courage to ask. Why have you let those who should have loved you strip away your self-worth? (You have so much more potential than anyone could ever credit you with. The type of love you’ve known is self-destructive, and false, and an effort to enslave those who think they aren’t strong enough to escape subjugation. It yearns to become something you can mold, and improve on, and be proud of. You’re much better than those in your past.) How can you not see why I continue to stay? (It seems to me you’ve been blinded to your worth for far too many years over the abusers you changed to cope with. It seems to me you don’t know how far I see past your walls, and the fact that I’ve already discovered your desire to annihilate your demons. But you’re much better than those in your history.) Why do you depend so heavily on others until it comes to trusting yourself and your own instincts? (You deserve better. You deserve to know how beautiful you are, not in spite of your scars, but because you didn’t give up when you received them. You deserve to spend time on your own neglected pedestal, rather than continuing to build upon the one you think I should have. Me, I’m no better than those in my future or past.) Why do think so lowly of yourself? (I’ve made my own mistakes, and learned how to see the silver-lining and hidden messages within situations and people. I haven’t always been the laidback saint you consider me to be, and continue each day to be better than my own story because you inspire me to do so. Because you’re much better than those in your past.) Why hide away? (All you’ve ever done is desire the same love we all do. No amount of someone else’s view should have a hold on the way you see yourself. You’re not as silent as those in your past.) And, in the end, all-too-human selfishness, the selfishness he feels he needs to survive, throws back into my face the unspoken questions I need to ask.
There are so many words that can’t properly express the emotions I undergo around her. How can I describe the heat I experience whenever her hand brushes mine, or whenever she sends me a lopsided curve of the lips after yet another argument? How can I relay the contentment I sense whenever she shows up at my doorstep with badly-boiled potatoes in hand, or whenever her off-key tunes float down the stairs to me during her showers? How can I convey the optimism I feel whenever I’m able to shyly smile back at her over the dinner table during a comfortable stillness, or whenever I find myself sending her borderline-charismatic texts on occasional mornings and evenings? How can I impart the shame suffered whenever I throw her efforts back into her face and disappointment fills her crestfallen appearance, or whenever I back out of letting her see the soft underbelly of the beast inside of me and that familiar silence triumphs over the weaknesses I want to communicate? Yet, in the end, my doubts let me piss away the emotional words I aspire to convey.
There are so many words that can’t properly express the emotions I discover around him. How can I impart the anticipation I experience whenever he unconsciously cuddles into me while out watching a play, or in the depths of sleep? How can I convey the concern I sense whenever he dreams of former lovers who didn’t understand what a fragile and loving creature they had to protect, or whenever he awakens and I have to pretend I didn’t have a glimpse into the life he’s not ready to share? How can I relay the love I feel whenever he’s having a “good” day, and he smiles softly at me, or whenever he trusts me enough to let me a little further into his world? How can I describe the disappointment I bear whenever I selfishly argue for him to let me in and he retreats faraway into his shell, undoing months of trust I’ve built with him? For, in the end, his fears in others and relationships are strong, and throw back into my face the emotional words I seek to tell.
There are so many times I want to say it. Once the thrill of the rising action and the heat of the climax are over, when the warm contentment of the resolution is weaving its way into my body just as dreams are weaving their way into my lessening consciousness. When I awake, always nearly expecting the other to have risen, to have reconsidered our romantic dynamic—to disappoint me. When each time, I look over to find my lover’s smiling face simply shining back at me. But every time I retort with awkward words and apathetic actions, and slight defeat and sadness enter my dearest’s eyes. I want to kiss the uncertainty away, to let her know that nothing she has done was wrong—that I care for her. Both of us continue to live on with my obstinacy, and I often doubt how long it will take before the last rope snaps, sending our old and tattered bridge down into oblivion. But, in the end, my pride lets me piss away those many times I almost say I love you.
There are so many times I want to say it. When each time he lets another crack appear in his defenses, and we’re allowed a peaceful moment, just the two of us. But every time, he remembers something from before, and he moves away from me, his barricades falling back into place. I want to kiss the uncertainty away, to let him know how much he means to me. When I awaken to his tranquil, sleeping figure and all traces of doubts and worries are gone, and it’s just him without the walls. Once the thrill of a well-received date is done, and the quality of time that’s spent quietly at home while he begins to fall into a contented rest. Both of us care for one another, but I often wonder how long it will take for him to unlock the chains of his fears, sending him soaring into the skies that belong to him. So, in the end, his all-too familiar pride throws back into my face the times I have said I love you.