They say write about what you know. I know I hurt you. And I know I'm sorry for it. I'm sorry I didn't think it through when I carelessly played with your emotions.
I know your veins are blue. I like tracing them with the tips of my fingers and then watch the corners of your mouth tilt upwards.
I know how to bake a pretty decent orange cake. Grandma's recipe - she taught me in the first grade.
I know how to hug; it's pretty simple, I can teach you - you stretch your arms upward, wrapping them around the neck of someone you love and pull them softly forward.
I think I know how to cry; bits of your soul leak out from your eyes, and you lose pieces of yourself - only the sad pieces - through the tears. That's how it's supposed to be anyways.
I'm supposed to write about what I know.
But, if you want us to be honest with each other... what do I know? You left. I don't know anything. I don't know if you really loved me. I don't know what I'm feeling right now, with the thrumming of my heart uneven in my chest. I don't know how to tell you I'm sorry I didn't stop to explain that it's not like that, not for me, and that you shouldn't take it hard, it's not you, it's not, it's me. I don't know why I ran away. I don't know why you left me. I don't know why this thing between us is broken and we just can't seem to fix it, not with all the superglue in the world. I don't know why when you interlace our fingers I get butterflies in the pit of my stomach - but when someone else does it, it doesn't happen. I don't know if I made you cry. That thought bothers me.
I don't know anything; you left, remember?
Want me to write about what I know? Fine!
I will! I know war, and I know what it's like trying to pass the time with gas masks so we're not poisened by the very air we breathe. I know what it's like to sit in a cramped room, holding a pillow to the sides of your face and wondering if the hurricane out there has killed anyone yet. I know what it's like to feel embarrassed of yourself, ashamed for your own behavior and faltering voice and mumbling words and wishing a pit would open and swallow you up. I know what it's like to hug a stuffed animal at midnight sharp, hidden under the covers, and cry, just leaking your soul out - and then, when you look at the clock, you're surprised you lived another day. Genuine surprise.
What do you know? What do you know about me? About any of this?
I know I'm sorry. I know I'm crying. I know you make my heart thrilled sometimes and the next moment you make it hurt so much in my chest.
I know I'm sick of this.
I know I have to tell you that. But I'm scared.
They say write about what you know... but I don't know anything anymore.
