You'd stop haunting me, I think, if you knew why I couldn't have you. It seems I'm stuck at this stage: not sorry I said no, just not sure who I am now that I've said it. Remorseful, knowing that I'd do it the same way over again. Thinking of that spot just behind your ear that I always wanted to kiss, and never did, and wouldn't even if I was given another chance. I'm not sure whether it's selfishness or real regret, but my typical outlook has changed to a sort of "insha'allah" (why that, of all things?).
Do you understand? Do you understand why I'm writing the things I never told you, won't tell you, can't tell you, am not even sure of myself?
I was nineteen. Does that help you understand? I told you my life is not mine - did that make sense? I told you my name was given; I told you I have never planned my life, but always been led; I told you the miracles that I can't forget; I told you that I am without ambition, and yet you saw that there's one goal I never lay down, and I lay you down for it. Did any of that get through? I never told you that, when you wore blue, you made it hard to breathe. Did it matter?
You called me a "good Christian". I told you I wanted to be. I love Him. I love Him more than me. I love Him more than you. His laws - the things He's asked me to follow, because He loves me, to show my love for Him - tell me I can't have you. You said it's good to question foundations. I said yes, but if the foundation is solid, then it shouldn't be dynamited. You called me a bitch. I deserved that.
I would die for you. Does it matter? Anything I have, you know - do you still know? - would be yours if you needed it; is yours whether you need it or not, if you want it. Do you understand? If you let go, remembered me only as the "good Christian" and not the little, philosophical nut that spun in circles in the rain, arms wide spread, and danced right into the ocean with both feet still in shoes, then I could let go too. If you'd forgive me, I could close this door. "Bitch" is a terrible ending. This strange apathy is worse.
It's like you think I treat you like everyone else. I don't. With everyone else, my heart is armored and my mind free. I speak my mind, I am myself. That's why I can speak of things I believe and think with anyone; it's why I can help people I don't know and debate religion and other things I care passionately about with folk I met five minutes ago. Only with my family, with the people I trust (this is on 2 hands, family included), my heart is unguarded. You could hurt me. Most people can't - my heart's outside their reach - but I'm vulnerable to you.
Funny that I still grin. Funny that I genuinely wouldn't change a thing (except maybe what you think of me). Funny that, quite often, I wake up and see what a beautiful world, what an awesome God, what a fun place, what interesting people. Funny that, now and then, I choose to keep a void inside because it means keeping you without breaking His law, and I'm not sure what to do about that. Funny that He loves me anyway and keeps breaking in on my reverie. Funny, sometimes I remember something you did or said, and I can almost smell you. Funny that He lets me breathe, but is always there when I need to be held. Funny, but sometimes, all I want to do is dance and laugh with Him. Funny, but quite often, I just wish you'd punch me till you let the whole thing go.
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