Are you waiting for me to blog about you? Maybe about how your hand fit perfectly in mine and you said you’d never let it go? About how you said you’d take care of me like no one else ever has, the same promise everyone else makes? About how I memorized your idioms and how I can, with perfect timing, find a place where you’d fit each one?
How about if I wrote about the plate you named your own, and how it still sits on a shelf where you left it?
Maybe I can write about how I felt alive every time you listened to me, and caged every time you shut me down?
Maybe I can write about how I’m a real person who knows those 15,000 people are real people, too, and some days every one of them matters, whether or not you get that.
Maybe I can write about all the stress and the fact that I haven’t sent it all back to you is a result of that stress throwing me into another flare.
Maybe I can write about how you shouldn’t have left how you did, but I will be okay.
Maybe I can write about you, maybe then you won’t hate my presence online.
Maybe I can write about my own shattered dreams, and how I always get back up.
Maybe I can write about how love doesn’t stop when you don’t like my opinion, and I still should be safe enough to state it.
Maybe all of this covers it. If not, I will still be okay, and maybe I learned next time’s lesson a little early.
Maybe we could have made it work, if we ever accepted each other in the first place.
So maybe I’ll let it go, and maybe one day, let the presence of you go, too.