|good god, I'm verbose
||[May. 18th, 2003|04:05 pm]
I'm a poet and I didn't even know that I am one.
|[||this mood swings toward
|[||this moment's theme song
|||||badly drawn boy - another pearl||]|
Crumbling. I can feel all the barriers I've constructed around my heart crumbling like wet sand. The secret that spent hours carefully constructing those walls has been released and I'm so scared I feel as though I might expire on the spot.
But feeling those walls fall away is the best feeling I've ever felt.
She may tell me she's disgusted. She may be horrified and we may never speak again. I know, with a detached sadness, that I expect this outcome and thus cease to be surprised or expectant when she is silent.
There are two parts to this secret. The first is not mine to hold. It is a simple truth that I can only pretend to keep from others. The second is only mine to give and I am counting the seconds until I can release it, too.
I thought originally I would only confess the first part. The second, I thought, might be the final blow to a friendship I cherished more than anything. But now I know that either way I'll tell her. I'll tell her that yes, I like women. Yes, you may hate me. But I'm not telling you because I want you to know the truth or I want our friendship to be completely honest.
I'm telling you because I'm selfish. Because I want release from the three little words that have been encasing my heart in cement since the day I met you.
I love you.
I've always loved you.