tired

He took his finger and traced the number 8 over my back. My legs were hanging over our blanket, my toes curling in the sand. "Quiet k8" he said, why so quiet? A million times I have stopped and started. I don't know how to talk to him anymore.



I don't know how to make him know me, make him understand the hell that is going on inside of me. He has no idea how hard I work to keep up the facade. He has no idea how tired I have become. His inability to "get it" feeds the space that is growing between us. In its place is a loneliness I can't even begin to describe.