and i think, now, that maybe she was nudging me there. saying, see, that is why i say you are beautiful. that is why i can see your scars and your fucked up reality and say to myself... that is something special.

and i think, now, that maybe i was just hoping she was nudging at that.

and she talks. or i talk. or no one talks. and she thinks and gets confused, gets frustrated, and leaves me.

and that is overly egotistical. she doesnt leave me. she leaves.

and she talked to me tonight.

it started with my writing. how i havent written a poem in what must be a month.

she asked me if i would, soon. told her i didnt know.

she told me she had been itching for a crayon poem. she told me "i wrote something. you ever want something so bad that you just go out and try to do it yourself?"

and that killed me. because she was admitting something. she was admitting what she needed, and what i had been failing to give her.

she says "i feel since i told you i thought you walked around your words, well, you kind of stopped walking completely and just said things plain."

and we talk about that. and now i know she feels guilty. she feels as if its her fault im not writing. as if maybe ive given it up.

which i havent. but everything lately, everything, has been revolving around feeling her so much in me that all i've written, or near all i've written, has been about her. and i wasnt ready to share that yet.

she says she is pushy. i say i dont see her that way. she says she pushes things onto me and i just take them and make things my fault.

i think she feels she's not good enough to warrant my crush.

i ask why she says this. she says its the way she feels.

we get quiet. she asks what i'm thinking. i tell her that she blames herself for too much. she says so do i.

she says she needs to get in control of her feelings. i ask what she's feeling. she says, clipped, "trapped. confused. needy. pushy. angry."

"and how many are stemming from me?"

"only a few. and not the totality of any of the feelings."

always trying to protect me. always, now, feeling she needs to make up for the hurt shes caused me.

and if i told her that it was ok, she would just feel bad. she wants me to get mad at her.

i dont think she's ever just been loved.

i ask if there is anything i can do. of course she says there isnt. but that listening helps. that she wants to hear more about what i have to say. that that helps.

i ask if there's anything in particular i should talk about.

she says yes. she says no. i ask if she wants to elborate or not.

she says she does but she doesnt.

so i say ok. and just start talking about anything that comes to mind.

she asks, a few minutes later, why i'm telling her what i tell her. i tell her i dont know, i just wanted to talk.

i tell her if she needs me to stop, just say it.

she says she never needs me to stop.

but then she must sleep. early tomorrow, you know.

and i let her go without a fight.

i always let her go without a fight.

and i'm always left sitting. waiting. biding my time.

so i wrote a poem. nothing major, nothing overly beautiful. but it begins: "there are things i'm worried about / loving too much. too hard."