it behooves you (me)
as you write this (I)
to maintain an air of transparency
to build a connection and yet stay opaque
to watch them move and speak and act
so many times that it becomes all you know (I)
until it's all the words you have left (I)
until you're not sure if it's even you anymore (I'm, I)
but it makes your words, less serious (my),
and your fear, less powerful (my),
when you say, (I)
"i am terrified of your attention because,
if it should continue,
which, by God, i hope it does,
there will be an expectation for more than i am right now,
more than i can handle, i think,
but i am not sure who i am anymore.
i am terrified of intimacy because it is a language i thought i knew,
until perhaps the tenth time i tested it out -
of course, i say tested as though i wasn't sure,
which i'm certain i was.
i am terrified because the words i say are part of the script,
my thoughts are not,
and your responses are not,
and the control i have when speaking is not the same control i have
when you reply.
do i have control when you reply? i hope not.
and yet i do.
but yet i don't all the same."

you shouldn't say that. (I)
it isn't appropriate.
they'll figure it out.
there's no time.
it's getting late.
you should rest.
(I)