I am shaking up the filament again. This flickering bulb can hardly illuminate half of how much I've fucked up now.
How weak was I to try and be the judge of my own feelings.
How I was better off leaving them in your hands, to be thrown by the words spilling out of your mouth and the stature of your scared heart.
I was losing myself in how vehemently I refused to be lost in you. Confused by the twisting pull of our hands together and cringing at the pop of your bones as they flexed to hold me.
And when I finally laid still, how tears leapt without warning and I still refused to let you see them.
Still, I wanted to scream it was not okay, that I would not kiss you, that I wished we said goodbye a week ago, in casual passing, not now.
And I wished it was just timing that had us so vulnerable, nothing but lighting and flux hormones.
But the truth is, I don't know.
And I'll never know how fucked I am for this or if I could've truly loved us or if you could've of held me without popping or if I would've even let you.