Don’t ask me about my sadness. Or my anger. They exist together, and sometimes, they are just the same.
Don’t come close to me with the idea of fixing me. I don’t need it. You can’t do it, you don’t have to, and most importantly, you shouldn’t. You’re a woman, and in no way, you’re obliged to undo my twisted body. Come close because you’re willing to accept me as who I am.
Talk to me, and sometimes, maybe, tell me to stop writing these sad pieces about loneliness and aloofness. Because, love, my fingers have forgotten to write happy stories. They only linger on the letters that will form a sad word or sentences like “I’m forgotten” or “I don’t need you”. Don’t make me think about us, because it makes me think about someone from my past and thinking about her splits my heart open into two and wide open, making me feel vulnerable in front of those who are just intrigued by the idea of a man incapable of emotions.
Take my palms in your hands and close the fingers, forming a fist, and open them again. Repeat the process, keep doing it until you see my anger slipping off the tips of my fingernails. But if my hands are already tightened into a fist, and I am staring at a wall, just know that I want to punch it hard. Don’t run away or try to stop me from knocking down the buildings, just sit patiently and stay with me. Look at me and smile, and tell me to smile.
When I want to cry and tears abandon me, come a little closer and let your hands cup my unshaved face, smile, and tell me: “It’s okay if you do not have tears. Some cries are dry as a desert, but it doesn’t mean they don’t hold value.” Please, when I tell you to leave, don’t. When I hold the door for you, shut it close and have both of us locked in the room.
Stay until you decide to let go.
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