It starts with a simple click.
It leads to a question: Do you write poetry for all the girls you like?
The answer, I think, is, understandably, yes. Or at least the ones that make an impression.
I should be happy.
But I am not. I am curious.
The questions sealed within hidden cells start to manifest.
Will I be just like them to you?
Will I just be a "well take those four and multiply them by, I don't know, ten. I can't remember."?
Will you remember me?
Five years from now?
Ten?
I know there is the question of whether you will have life at that time, but, assuming you will, will I even be in it? Even in memory?
Or will you bury them with me in my casket?
Or is there anything to bury?
I should be happy with the poems and the songs and the love I receive from you.
And I am.
And I am curious. We have that in common.
Will I be remembered as a good girlfriend? Or one with the "fundamental problems in the relationship" that all the rest have turned out to be? Will I just be grouped with all the rest of them, or will I still be as special as you promised I always would?
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't want to know.

I don't. Know.

..................................................................

Again
I ask this question.
Again
I must rethink these thought.
Again.
The doubt hits me.
Again.
Again.
Harder.
It burns.
Faster.
It throbs.
It doesn't stop. Only pauses.
It keeps going.
I hold on. Try to stop the wall from breaking.
Instinct. Impulse. Wins.
The questions flood. There is the hope of not creating an answer.
It ends.

I don't want this. I want you, not this.
Everything is still as it clambers out of my brain, puts on its coat, and leaves.
I feel dirty as it walks out. It is unclean, so I am unclean by default.
But my filth is even more impure.
Unclean is what it is, it had no say.
I chose this.
I chose to let it infect me, and now it will not go away. It calls again for another rendezvous of guilt.
I don't want this.

A part of me wants to know, so no matter how hard I fight, it comes back.
I am curious.
I undo the lock.
I am.
Unworthy.
I am.
Curious.
I am.
Here.

I am curious.
Am I special? Am I? Really?
I do not ask. I am silenced by the questions left unanswered.
I don't know. Echoes.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I don't know.
I want to know.
I do know.

And yet I doubt.

There are no words for this.