Suppressive

I was going to tell you. I was going to reveal it to you; I wanted to show you what it's like to be me, to feel what I feel, to see things through my eyes.

Forgive me, but you won't have that chance. Not now.

My hands hover over the keyboard, each finger twitching eagerly. My mind races; pictures, words, feelings, all pouring out. And then I plug the flow. Some of what goes on inside shouldn't be brought out into the open.

I want you to know that I'm OK, but you'll never believe me if I shared this with you. When I walk away waving my hand over my shoulder, I don't want you crying for me. I love you, and that's all you need to know for now.

Maybe when I get the right perspective I'll tell you about it. Words are real and dangerous things. I can't have you stepping on the mines I unwittingly planted around me.

The screen is closing now. The laptop whirs into stand-by. Can you hear that? It's the suppressive sound of silence.