“I know.” 

I say that a lot. , I think it a lot. “I know” is an existence I live in, a permanent state of awareness that stills my vibrating hands and shuts down the tickle of frosted doubt. For this, I thank you, “I know,” for I know that you only mean the best. And, of course, I also know that without you, I wouldn’t be me anymore; I’d succumb to the sickly sweet color of greyish blue that “I don’t know,” “I’m not sure,” and even “I haven’t thought about it” reside in. That just deep enough pool of protection, it’s enticing, I’ll admit, but it hides a lot and I’ve never been one to hide. At least not from myself and even when I try, I can’t hide from you— I know this too. I know you could tell me why as well, but perhaps a small part of knowing is pretending that you don’t know. 

I don’t know if I know you anymore. When I look you right in the eyes, that is. 

Your gaze never wavers, not even when I ask the question I know you have been dreading all night. 

“Why?” — It’s a simple question, really. Though I already know “why,” I need you to speak it. I need you to take responsibility for it. I’m not weak, but everyone has a breaking point. Perhaps I don’t know you anymore because I know you’re my breaking point. And no one ever likes confronting what’s theirs.