You're not all that great, really.
Well, maybe you are a bit.
But my soul was all in tangled knots worse than you get in earbud strings, and my heart had this awful, open wound on it...
...and you were the closest thing I could find to a Band-Aid.
So I grabbed for it, but your arm snatched back, and instead of letting myself fall and just scrape my knees, I kept reaching, and now I'm afraid I'm going to fall into that thorn bush.
You are that thorn bush, I'm afraid.
I realized this morning that though I mentally nod with agreement when the old man in the western movie says it's better to fight with words than fists, for some reason, you leave me lost for acceptable, heavy-hitting words, and my deep desires to hit things and look tough just come out. Sorry.
But anything I can think of to say that might pack the same punch as my tiny fist just sounds weak. And I don't want to look weak around you.
Ironically, it makes me look weaker. And now you see this pathetic side of me that's just grasping at straws. Instead of turning over smoothly, I feel like all the pebbles of my sanity are just slipping through my fingers, and they're all hitting you, and instead of catching them, you're just letting them hit you, and then I've just given you a headache.
This isn't my essence, I promise...
...but there's one too many bruises on your head, so you're afraid to look for it.
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