December 19, 2010

I’m not allowed to talk about it. That’s what’s unfair to me. That’s the reason. The unfairness, I mean. The reason I couldn’t stop crying on your shoulder that night you sat there and held me in that freezing cold pick-up truck. You told me you missed me more than anything. Here’s what really set me off though; I thought of everything you put me through. And I thought about how I was always there anyway. And how you can throw me aside if you feel like it, but I’m expected to still be there when it’s convenient for you. And the most unfair part about it is that you and I both know that I will still be there. But you kept telling me you missed me. You know, maybe I missed you too. Maybe I missed you all along, but it didn’t matter then. Because you didn’t miss me. I wish you wouldn’t see this, but I know you will. And I just wish I could talk about it, but I can’t. And it’s unfair.