It would be wrong of me to say that I didnât want you, a lie really, but sometimes we must lie, for protection. My own, our loved oneâs, and yours. If the bold feelings I contain were to come rumbling out like lava, hot and destructive, would I ever find peace? Once the blinding heat and unstoppable cascade has turned to sturdy igneous rock? Maybe I would be better for it, stronger even, my heart hardened against the kind of pain only words can inflict. Volcanic soil is amongst the most fertile, so maybe destruction is necessary for life to go on. But what about them, the lives that will never be the same for it? The ones buried beneath the rock and ash, the ones who will never see the life given from their obliteration. The ones who would not, cannot, see the beauty in it. So, should I lie, and spare myself my own possible eradication? Never to glimpse what might have, could have, been. Â Or should I take the chance and bathe in the chaos of my own creation and stare past, without seeing them, those who have the unfortunate luck of being too close, who will be swallowed, chewed, spit out, and stepped on, all for the sake of my truthful words?