Why?

Why do you do this?

A better question is, why do I let it bother me, I think.

I know you love me. You do, don’t you. Yes, you do. It’s in your agonizing eyes, in your searing touch.

So why does a simple call make my tortured heart clench, my throat tight with fear and pain and aching need?

Fear.

Because I’m not good enough. I know you’ll say I am. I’m not.

Afraid.

One day you’ll leave, and I won’t know how to live.

Is it all in my imagination? I hope so.
I pray so.

Nothing burns deeper than the flames of my doubt suspicion breeds angry flames that lick and scar my tender flesh.

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