“What...what’s…wrong…?” Kattar stammers, squinting at me like he’s trying to study something miles away or bring his eyes into focus.
I could just start ranting, again.
I could explode, and go off like a little sociopathic firecracker the same way I have five hundred other times.
But maybe I’m getting old.
Or I’m just tired.
I feel more like salt water than sparks or fire, and it pours out more like tears than anything else as I just try my best, hopelessly, fragile-y to explain the way I’m feeling like I’ve forgotten how to be a woman or something.
Maybe I’m just becoming the definition of sanity. Crazy as that sounds. Trial and error has proved time and time again that he’s not - nobody’s going to get it - put two and two together - understand or make sense of me if I don’t at least start saying something.
Not even me.
The longer I keep it in my head, the more convoluted this emotional gobbledygook becomes, and I’m…
Tired.
Tired of brooding - tired of crying in the dark, alone, because I refuse to admit that I prefer to cry with someone.
