Inconvenient Inarticulateness

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I’ve never been good with words.

They just don’t roll off my tongue as easy as they do for some people, you know? I wish I were able to supply the right thing to say at the most pivotal moment. Instead, my throat closes up (burns) and I can’t seem to make you listen (to make you understand).

If I were graced with the exceptional speech abilities needed to make you hear, god, would I be happy. I would tell you just how much you mean to me (when really, that’s beyond what can be expressed in words). I would tell you how much you’re hurting me, just by looking at me now with those cold, emotionless black eyes. I would tell you that I never gave up on you (even when everyone else had) and that you are the only reason I’ve become who I am now. I would try to express the pain I felt upon losing you; my determination to find you again and bring you home; the joy I felt when you returned, and my despair when I realized it was in cold blood.

I would tell you that I realize just how much I’m hurting you now, and that I wish I could erase my mistakes. I could try to defend my actions, resorting to childish notions of “payback”. Or would saying that I was “protecting myself” be better? (But then again, I would only be lying.) I could reminisce with you, perhaps: travel back in time to when all we knew was innocence (before knowledge stained our vision).

But what I know is this:
I would tell you that you are my best friend. I would tell you how disgustingly wrong your blood feels on my hands (but how right my hands felt around that gun). I would tell you that, even after all we’ve been through (all you’ve put me through), I still love you (and I would wonder, do you feel the same way too?). I would tell you that I’m sorry.

But then again, I’ve never been good with words…





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