Prose

It’s good that I’m silent

It’s good as long as I exist, as long I don’t talk about it, while you’re trying to guess. I don’t want you to know what’s hidden in my voice. I don’t want you to feel what’s flowing through my veins as you fight with me to open up and surrender to you. It’s good as long as I don’t give up. You will be swallowed by the chaos that’s in me if it tastes you. The claws of my hopelessness will grab you, and you don’t deserve that. It’s good as long as I don’t allow them and keep protecting you. But you must never know, that’s why I’m silent. Good thing I still have the strength to endure, not to speak, not to give up and bleed my knees falling before you. I don’t want you to see me fall and how I look then. I let it be, collecting these ashes in me until I become ashes myself. And I let you fight my battles, thinking they are yours to fight as well. And I’m sorry, but you’re not giving up. It’s not good. Maybe it was supposed to happen, maybe I’m waiting for it to happen. Therefore, I deny all chances to approach you. I hug you and feel you, feel your heartbeat, heart to heart, cringing in your arms. I understand how crazy I am as you stand in front of me and wait. You wait for my lips to slide over yours, you wait for me to fall into the abyss of your emotions. I’m driving you crazy while screaming inside to hear what you need to comprehend, or maybe not. The ambiguous absurdity of a wanderer, and the perfect combination of sense and reason that everything and nothing is a part of the compass for you to find me. You want to run your fingers over my scars. But what about new wounds? Can you taste the fresh blood that can also fill your arteries if I let it? It’s not a good idea to think that, with enough reason, you can completely understand someone who knows the way with the priorities. It’s not good to sense what you will never feel the same way I do. Your mind cannot compete with my silence. But emotions are deceptive predators. It’s good that I’m silent, you don’t know how many dumplings I count waiting for you to show up. I tattoo your name with the voices in my head, the words all over the body. I draw your reflections and realize the discomfort. I hear echoes of utopia, I touch your borders, I cross them. I hold you with one hand on the edge of the havoc, with the other one, I take you back to the top. You know I’m no good, but you’re watching me so skillfully. My lips are cracking from the lack of you. You’re my favorite weight that I gladly carry on my back. Even when the time stops and returns, you persist. Even as the minutes pass by slowly as our worlds move and collide with one another. But the good thing is that I stay silent because everything will become abnormal if I stop being silent. You don’t listen to my voice for days, but you read from my lips. You don’t see how far my thoughts go with the sacks filled with anxiety, but you travel with them, making my journey easier. It’s good that you don’t know how many I carry, but it’s not good that you can feel their weight. I can’t change that, but I’m silent. I keep silent about anything more that can ruin you. You don’t deserve a single pebble on your shoulders. I carry enough of them myself. And you emphasize emotions, you ignore what I’m trying to keep quiet from you. Scream and the devastation, the walls between us that I can in no way make thicker, they spare in the wrong place. You’re tearing them down. I’m absorbing you. You’re trying to do the same. The differences are shared, but they are also found and multiplied by your tactless steps catching up with mine. Mind like a time bomb, the heart is torn, but you fix it again. My eyelids tremble just to keep your gaze in them and trap it. But I’m afraid you see what’s behind them. I don’t know how you’re going to get out. So it’s good while I keep quiet and cover you with what I can, to save you from the arrogance of a monster scratching under a thin layer of my skin. And my fear is scared. It’s afraid of your persistence. But I don’t allow it to get to me. And I don’t allow no one and nothing in me that tears me to go out and take you. And I’m going crazy as I fence with the edge of my touch that can hurt you if I let it. If I lower my shield and stop being silent. Voiceless and deaf, I reveal secrets that I didn’t before, but you know when it’s time to listen and when it’s time to take a peek. And then lightning surprises you, hits you and cuts you in half, indifferently and quickly. And then, for a short time, silence is again tolerable, and has a reason and purpose for you, but never again essential. I exhaust you with the delusion of a tragic hero and a fallen angel with artificial wings and re-fill every hole that remains in you after trying to hear what my silence whispers to you. I can feel your frozen fingers, I put them on my cracked lips and inhale you into my lungs only to exhale you when I feel you are too much to endure. And we’re starting over. You’re not giving up. Not good. Time stops before you step at my entrance through my delirium. At that moment you touch nothing but the humidity of the air between reality and the enigma of my uneven breathing. You cry for the warmth in me, and I for you. And I put an important emphasis on my love for you, but just when I decide that it’s going to prevail, I stiff at the beginning of the place where I want to take you. I realize I can’t or I shouldn’t. You don’t deserve to feel everything that my bones are used to, dull, broken, empty, fragile. I can’t let the death inside me kill you, let my subconscious bit and poison you, haunting you by what distorted me. But if I start telling you, I may have to let you go, and it’s not good that I’m going to lose my strength that way. What will remain of you without me? Or perhaps, I will disappear and there will be no remains left.

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