Wilted Words

He is a story that I want to read, over and over until every word in engraved in my memory, he is a book with ripped out pages, with smudged ink in his folds and crossed out sentences. I desperately want my hand on his spine. I touch it gingerly, and I can sense that It is rigid and strong. Although, I can locate the cracks in it, and I can tell he is tired from holding up for that long.  My fingertips skim through his pages, and they're soft, so soft and thin and delicate like rose petals. they're softer than the words scribbled on the surface. Some of the pages are torn out, some of them have blurry writing, smudged sentences, illegible paragraphs that I cannot make out a single word of. As I read I start to see the reason behind his roughness. His guarded demeanor. I know that he is hoping that maybe someday someone will love him as he is,  that someone would see beyond the anger and the mess he's made of himself. I try to read between his lines and decipher him,...

The sentences we blurt out are unforgiving. Once they're out, they're out. You can't go back and revise them, proof read them, edit them, You can't replace a full stop with a question mark or put a comma, continuing your sentences instead of the already existing full stop. You can't clarify or elaborate. Your intended meaning was lost in the process of forming the words as they roll off your tongue, I know that when you say you love me you mean "this will make you happy, this is the reassurance you need so I am saying it" but it lacks conviction, I know that when you ask me if I slept well you want to know if I didn't stay up till dawn staring at my ceiling. And you halfheartedly want the real answer, I know when I ask you if you're okay you say you are good, even when good and the state you're in couldn't be more mismatched. I don't want you to think too much, And I don't want to dissect your paragraphs anymore, I don...