It’s that time of night again. You know, when the music’s slow and the lights are low and I’m so tired and vaguely lonely that my power point for English makes me get sentimental. Sometimes I like to waltz around the room, pretending I’m holding on to someone else. We twirl gracefully across the kitchen floor, and I close my eyes and can almost feel it. But not really. I can only pretend for a little while, until it gets too unbearable and I end up just sitting, holding my knees against my chest, trying to remember how to breathe.
Because it just gets to be too much sometimes. Or not enough. And there’s no one to love me through it, to tell me I’m pretty and listen to me rant. No one’s there to really hear me.
I close my eyes and rock back and forth to the soft music, telling myself that someday somebody will hold me.
I’m not heartbroken because nobody wants my sloppy heart. I try to give it to them, I offer it to people on street corners and in hallways and while driving in my car. But it’s not pretty enough for them, it’s not shiny and red and new. It’s tired. It’s trying the best it can.
I’m trying the best I can.