I thought I was done being vulnerable.

I thought I was done being vulnerable. That if I pull up a GDocs and fill it with writing that I can pretend that I’m proud of, hiding metaphors and symbols and allusions that all points to…you, I will be distracted from the problem.

Yet from the corner of my eyes, amongst the sea of disorganized tabs, I saw the flash of movement. My naive heart thought itself a lioness, tugged at my brain to click it, to see it, to read all that you have to say. A question about homework, probably, or about that club or this. I can pretend you merely give small talks to most people, I can pretend that I don’t miss those conversations when you are being vulnerably philosophical.

I can pretend to be indifferent.

Can I? So I add “lmao”s and “lel”s in my sentences to pretend that I don’t delete and type and delete and type again just to give an adequate response. I stop reading because there are simply too many hopes I knew false. Songs not meant to be. Do I cry to God or Cupid, since the former I don’t want to trifle with such a trivial thing and the latter I envy for his love immortalized by marble and artistry on display?

While I have no apt artistry or pedestal I will still display on the small stage that is this screen, since if I am never going to be done being vulnerable I might as well get used to it.


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