You will never fully be able to understand me enough and get inside – no matter how mad you are for me, how obsessed you become, or how much you think you love me. It’s not because I wouldn’t let you in, I have. It’s because you don’t know the first thing to do in here anyway. You stand there with your mouth gaping open, marveling at the shiny chandelier over the entrance when the important shit is in a little beat up box on the coffee table in the living room.
You’ll never “get” me, and I know it every time I look at you. I feel like a jerk because of it. You think I’m falling for your words because deep down I wish I could. But they’re like keys that don’t fit in my lock. I say what I’m supposed to say, hoping that at some point I will feel connected to my own words. Sometimes I do. I swear I do.
Most of the time I just feel like running. I don’t think you can keep up. I don’t think you really want me to slow down and let you catch up. When I slow down, the essence that keeps you fascinated, the essence that causes me to run in the first place just seeps out of me. I become the fragile shell of what you were after, someone you have to handle gently and keep on a shelf. I don’t belong on a shelf.
