It was so bloody quiet. Too much of it. Too much silence and all I needed was to be in someone’s arms. I needed it. I needed to hear someone’s voice. Anyone. But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. I knew better. Or not. I knew not to be too trusting. I new not to be so open. I knew it would be better if I kept it to myself. It’s not selfish. Don’t call it that. You couldn’t have handled it…not well and not at all. That would’ve hurt more.
This one is personal. It’s what happens when you pile anxiety and disappointment, on top of your chest. In the back of your mind.
Damn it. I needed someone.
But I know better.
How often can someone deal with your shit? How often will they…?