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Dear Reader

I cannot write anymore

With you over my shoulder 

Reading everything



I know you only read the ones about you

But knowing you’ll read it

Has killed it



It’s too close to home now

It’s too revealing

I don’t want you to know

Everything that I am thinking

All of the time



So please stop

I’ve written so much lately

But can’t share it

Knowing you’ll be there



Even though

It’s basically only you and I reading this

And sometimes

It feels more like passing notes

In class

Hoping the teacher doesn't catch us

And read our notes out loud 

To the world


Yes

It feels more like that

Then poetry 



I want to share it

Because I like it

And I hardly ever got scared to write about What was on my mind

Until you moved in 



Now i’m terrified

That I’ll say the wrong thing

Or get to carried away in some exaggeration That I call art

And you’ll get the wrong idea

Or the right one

And you’ll disappear



I cannot be free

With you there

Not fully



Maybe go back and read them someday

When we are far apart

And I don’t have to face the consequences 

Of my own art 



Tomorrow is your birthday

And I was going to post all the things I’ve been writing about you lately 

As a ‘birthday gift’ 

But I just feel like it’s a horrible idea now

And a horrible gift

Not some neat expression of affection

I had hoped it would be


So I’ll keep them

(probably)

And if you want to read them in the future

When we are far apart

That’s cool with me doll

Just as long as I don’t have to face the consequences 

Of my own art.


-C.H.



 



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