Irritation

Children have the power of curiosity. So they take things apart, and make discoveries along the way.

It almost feels as if I had more clarity as a child, because of that power, those curiosity-driven journeys.

At least I understood myself.


I wasn't afraid.

I mean, at least I didn't think I would be afraid of breaking myself down to be enlightened. Not until when I did break down.

And as that process of stitching myself together goes on, I couldn't help but feel a little... irritated.

It wasn't that the whole thing took me by such surprise, that it killed me and left me in the dark. It wasn't that I hated myself for wallowing in the well of shame and embarrassment.

I am irritated because of how much I've made it about you.

If only shaking my head could somehow shake all my thoughts into the right order. I do know one thing though. It was always about you. How you felt; how you thought.

I've wanted you so badly. Yet, because of your own insecurities and your own demons, you pushed me away with your unnecessary shield; and you, vulnerable and paranoid, hiding behind the shadow.

Be mine?

I asked. You smiled, and turned away.

It slices. The words you threw at me. Scolding me for perfectly logical things that I should have never apologized for.

You were never brave enough to claim me anyways. So why pretend that it meant something, that my mingling with other free souls somewhat violated rules that we never made up?

I begged and I begged.

I did.

Even then I kept it about you.

No more.