I Have A Theory

Almost all the brush-offs 

Are actually tight, loving squeezes

“I love you so much, but I can’t hear you over the rising echoes of the bullet that ricocheted when you took aim at the shield I’d carried, a shield with both our names etched beautifully into its backing. My secret. The side that’s held closest to me.”

And volcanos back up. Magnificent rage is released into the atmosphere we share with the roaring eulogy,

“I am dying. Hear me please, understand me please, I am dying because you do not hear me and please, please turn down your music, I am dying... I need you to know.

Almost all the shut downs are invitations to engage,

“You carry blame, and you want only to lighten your burden. You live in doubt, and without a companion to validate you with certitude of your damndedness. I am not yours to saddle with these sorrows.”

But they only enrage

“I was thinking stop, stop, stop telling me stop reminding me stop branding me with that lie please hear me I am yours. You are mine.”

It is here that I’ve considered all convictions displayed. It is here that I’ve come to dissect the most natural distress.

Is the scroll upside-down?

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