meant to write.

9.07.09
I don't deserve to write to you. When I can't even talk to you when it matters most, when I force you to repeat the same questions over and over in the dark.
I begin to see flashes of images rather than think about how I should respond to you.
I see the manifestation of us as our primal selves, ripping and tearing at one another, layers of skin and hair sloughing off, but never shedding any blood. We strip ourselves bare and build each other back up again.
I feel even more guarded than when we began.
I stopped writing because my written words are meaningless. How can I script promises without following through with them?
I make it hard on purpose.
But, I am trying to ignore the fact that I have traveled a full 360 degrees and I am back to where I began: defiant, ignorant, stubborn, selfish, righteous, naive, undeserving.

I hold myself back in fear of...