Say.

You ask me "What's going on?"
What's inside my head?

I can't tell you.
Can't bring myself to.

But I want you to know.
I can't say the things I want to say to you when you're here.
But I can write them out and I can scream them inside my head.
But I can't say them to you.

I can't say them, because I'm afraid I'll lose you somehow.
In this ramble of thoughts and emotions and feelings all pressing and pushing and demanding to be let out.
And I am scared.

I am scared of what you'll think if I tell you what I'm really thinking, what I'm really feeling.
What I really want to say is "I love you."
But sometimes I can't understand you.

And then I feel like I am a terrible person.
I don't know what's going on and I don't understand.
And I just want us to be together, but apart.

And I want us to... have sex and run around the house naked and not give two shits about what anybody says.
But, whilst I know that you can do that, I can't and I don't know why.
And I try to explain myself, but I can't, so I write it out.

Hoping that one day you'll read it and you'll know, and  you'll just know that I'm talking to you and I'm not talking to anybody else and there's nobody else in this world that I could ever say any of those things to except for you.

But that won't happen. I can't get you to read, I can't get you to listen.
You listen, but you don't. And you don't understand the subtleties and the subtext.
And it is unfair to give you subtlety and subtext, but I don't know how else to say what I need to say and its just this rampant, rabid animal inside of me that is terrified of what you'll think when I'm done saying what it is I need to say. When I'm done finally getting everything out and into the open and all, all out there.

And I don't know what to say. So I guess I'll keep writing words, hoping, praying, that one day, you'll read them and you'll understand that that poem, and that word, was for you.

And then you'll still love me when you realize that I don't know what to say.