Don’t come near me. Don’t touch me. Don’t tell me that things are going to get better. Don’t smile in my direction and keep your hands to yourself. I don’t want your hugs, your kind words, your nodding, knowing glances. I don’t need you to look at me and pretend to understand while inside you count your stars and send up a silent prayer to an absentee God that you aren’t me.
You can keep your advice and your pity and platitudes.
This is, after all, my own bed.
It was me who bought the promises cheap and continued to trade in fake currency. Who ignored the signs and made excuses. I am the one who stepped back, inch by inch, from the line in the sand and fooled myself about brighter days ahead.
This isn’t a pity party, no drama here, I readily shoulder the blame.
But all the same, I don’t want to hear from you, or read about your blessings. It hurts to see that someone loves you, that people think about you, that you’re shown beauty in your everyday. I am jealous of your hand-delivered pastries, your beautiful daughters, your surprise trips and your hand-crocheted critters. I envy the ferocity with which you’re loved and the outward displays of those you’re loved by.
My skin burns green and the lump in my throat grows bigger every time I ‘like’ your picture, your message, your outpouring of thanks for those who and that which enriches you. I start to cry and swallow it down because I like, truly like, LOVE, that they are yours and my lust for the same just cheapens them.
So please, just stay silent, just for a minute. Let me breathe and believe that what you have isn’t so much better than what my eyes see every time they’re open. Just for today let me feel that I’m part of the same world as you, and don’t make me refute your objections with the cold stone truth that I know.