he tells me not to think through it so much, but i cannot help that my brain is a twisty, wiry, whirring mess. I cannot help that he makes me feel amazingly helpless to resist thinking about it because thinking about it means thinking about us and i have always just screwed up so badly before--can you blame me for getting scared that I'll get hurt? it was my fault anyways, that one time, i guess. it is not his choice to acquire something dramatic with the companionship i present--i can't now risk showing myself like that. i wish i was as good as him at playing my cards close to my chest. i am a poor bluffer, i suppose. is it a skill that comes with time? is it so bad that i have never any desire to tell a lie to you? i feel guilty for fearing you will lie to me like he did those years ago. i wouldn't wish the hungry depression that a broken heart brings on anybody, not even my worst enemy. please please please don't ever you lie to me. you would be so surprised at what i am willing to forgive. maybe i flatter you too much. once again, a monologued soliloquy of the things scattered among the forest of folds that is my measly pink and grey brain. i am a coward sometimes, so much so that i type it all here instead of actually saying it to him. Bah!