I fantasize about confessing. I spend hours upon hours acting out conversations and scenarios where I let someone know how I feel. I talk about my fears, my emotions, my thoughts, all my struggles. I talk about how long it’s been, how I’ve tried to be strong and keep going but I feel like I’m drowning. I talk about how it’s always been like this and I feel like something’s wrong with me. I confess. I ask for help. It works.
But then I never do. I wait for someone to ask, give me the opportunity to do it, to let it all out. But no one does. And I listen. And they confess. And I still listen. And sometimes they ask, but it’s never enough. It’s never at the right time. And I never do. I don’t confess. It feels wrong, sad. Feels like I’m trying to hard. I try but I can never put it into words.
So I don’t. I keep it all in. And it eats away at me. And it eats and eats and eats. And I still keep it in. Because that’s all I can do. I am afraid if I try to say it it’ll be worse. I’d acknowledge it and there would be no turning back. And it would be different. It would be real. No more hiding and now everyone knows. And I can’t pretend it’s fine. They know. I don’t want to pretend. But I do. I have been for a while. Nothing changes.
I fantasize about confessing. I write pages upon pages of everything I’d say. But I don’t. No one asks. And I listen. And it’s fine, I pretend. No one knows. I want them to know.
I fantasize about confessing.
Some day, perhaps.
