Curiosity may have killed the cat, but being incurious will slaughter relationships. How long can two last when only one wants to know?
Have I not made it easy? Am I not words on a page, a liturgy of emotions, a catechism of ceaseless anxiety?
Read me. I’m self narrated. I’m open. Ask. I’ll tell.
How long will I be tapping at this window, asking to be let in? Asking to be seen? Why can’t you see me?
With each question I ask, the knowledge of your seeming indifference widens this chasm between us. Don’t you see it? These cracks were forming, and now I’m breaking. How long before you can’t reach me? Do you even want to?
Ask me. Again and again. As I ask you, begging to be heard. Begging to be answered.
For all my queries, I know little. Everything is painfully extracted. Everything withheld costs.
I am nothing but questions. You are everything except questions.
I am nothing but exposed. You are everything except vulnerable.
I am nothing but before you. You are looking everywhere but here.
Look at me.
I said look at me.
