Dating a Stonewaller
In your moments of silence I am my loudest. I eagerly fill in the empty pauses. If talking at terrified stones was competitive, I’d certainly have a silver medal at least.
How satisfactory it’d be to be in the right. When you admit you’re picking again and that you don’t intend to let my scab heal.
One really can be addicted to anything, and just like disordered thoughts, some addictions are more socially accepted than others.
You’re not loud, obnoxious, or violent. You vanish while remaining in plain sight.
I once thought it simply a display of strength, an act of maturity and restraint. As the surface area around my eyes grow, so too does the clarity of my tear stained truth.
From the nothingness I am given, I create dialogue. I see futures unfold.
Oh, what it must do to your ego to merely be indifferent and cause as mighty an uproar as this.
The depth of my searches cause my wound to spill out. The trust I mustered from where I had none. Investigations and quests to curate my love. Only to find that it never existed.
Not even my own.
The time set for waiting passed so long ago. My scab keeps on bleeding.
I’ve got to go. You’re already gone.