Prompt: The one person you’d want reading your blog.

Is this my heart? I wonder if it is. I never expose anything without thinking about it. I think and rethink, rinse and repeat. Is my heart so complicated? Is there a place, deep down,where I say what I feel without thinking about it? I do not know. So then, to the best of my knowledge, my writing is where I am most exposed. My writing is my heart. Would you like to see my heart? I suppose you couldn’t care less, despite the fact that my stomach flips when you talk to me. When you smile, I smile even brighter. Your dullest words are honey and warm tea, to my ears and mine alone. When I give up on you, when I decide not to be a nuisance, you never, ever disappoint me; you care, I know you do. You ask if I’m okay: for a few days wherein my annoying chatter is absent makes you worry about my health. Your idiosyncrasies make me laugh whenever they cross my mind- and they cross my mind whenever I think of you. If you knew how much I think about you, you would laugh, that way you always do when I say I’ll pray for you. You’d laugh it off, because I’m your funny, weird friend who cares too openly. The friend you like to tease. You wouldn’t want to see my heart, because you’re more concerned about making sure I don’t faint from anxiety every time I take on responsibility. You wouldn’t want to see my heart, and the truth is, my love, I don’t want you to, either. If you saw my heart, you’d know. You’d know I do much more than just care. You’d know I-.

And that must never, ever happen. I wish it weren’t so. If only. If only. But you can’t know. And so you must never, ever see my heart.

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