glass

I always knew I was more broken than you.

You once told me that I was too closed off, I was only ever happy. I told you I had no reason to be anything but.

You looked so afraid at that reply.

"Everyone has feelings" You told me. I shrugged and replied, "not me."

Maybe it didn't work because we were both writers: too romantic. too disillusioned. too cynical.

I remember knowing how broken I was even as a 5 year old: refusing to believe in Santa, allowing aeroplanes to land in my mouth out of pity.

Mother told me, "You're a Christian." and I took her word, growing up praying to a Greater Power I didn't believe in.

But sometimes I catch myself praying and hoping, desperately, (hoping) that someone would help.

Maybe that's why when I refuse to believe in love but hang on and hope that there's good in everyone and commit myself to someone I know doesn't exist or who exists only in my subconscious,

I'm an idiot, aren't I?