My efforts to be what I think you want—what you say you want—is a failure every time.
As it is doomed to be.
Either you are lying or I am not enough.
Most likely both.
As fucking usual.
And I want so much to ask you
What I could do, what I could be.
Even if it hurts, I want to know.
But I know you well enough to know you won’t tell me.
You’ll tell me I’m wrong
Or you don’t know.
Which just means you don’t want to hurt me.
I’m glad you don’t want to hurt me.
But how will I ever learn
If no one is willing to teach me?
Lessons—all the ones worth learning—hurt a little.
And it’s not as if without your input there is no pain.
The pain of continuing to get it wrong is worse than the pain of learning how to get it right.
My time is every bit as limited as yours.
I am asking for help—which is not easy for me.
Because I cannot make it alone.
Maybe because I’m not clear about what I want.
Maybe because what I want is too tame, too calm.
My clumsy attempts at affection, met with ridicule or ignorance
Or worst of all, pity.
But a pity that makes you want to run away, not reach out with compassion.
Because my need might crush you
And you can’t risk it.
You say it’s all my imagination.
But how could it be?
I am too melancholy, too needy, too ugly, too drab.
I am too much of whatever you’re not looking for
And too little of what you are.
I always thought that what I wanted was so simple, so easy.
But I guess it was still too much.
Or the too little that turns out to be not enough.
What chance did I have, I ask you?
And if I haven’t figured it out by now,
What hope do I have?
With no one to teach me
Or hold my hand
Or wipe my tears
Or touch me tenderly?
What hope do I have?
There is no chance that I will get what I want if I cannot ever ask for it safely.
However much it hurts,
It can’t hurt worse than this—always feeling wrong.
If no one will teach me, I can only learn from observing and from experience.
And my observation and experience are skewed by my disappointment and hurt.
And while those things are real, they are not all there is. I hope not, anyway.
You tell me that I am wrong about my observations.
But you cannot (or will not) help me correct them.
So the only thing I can do is observe some more and hope like hell
That I will grow new eyes.