You hope somebody will say the word so you don’t have to.

Admitting to it evokes shame, but

~ Why?

You want it so bad, to get it off your chest, let it be expelled through your pores like the sweat you sweat in days you wish were over before they even started. You pray, you beg, you fall into blind despair; you sleep with it and flirt with death. You sigh, cry and expect someone, something ~ anything out there ~ to hear you. Why can someone say it for me? for I cannot form words to express it.

I accept that this is the easiest way out and I am asking for it: I just want somebody to come and set me free.

~ Free from what?

The shame of wanting to say this, the shame from wanting this so much but being incapable of holding it against my prosecutors.

(but, the World is not a temple of doom, there’s nothing wrong with wanting what you want.)

But there is, you see, we were taught it’s wrong to want such splendorous things, such glories if all we wish them for is to make us feel better in our own skin.

~ Says who?

The World, society, gnomes, the United Nations, the birds for all I care.

(but it’s not true), I know. (Then, why shame?) Because what I feel is not guilt. (But why is it so hard to let go of this feeling of shame?) I don’t know. I just don’t know.

So I talk about it without touching the subject. I dance around it without keeping its pace. I flower it and create excuses, I survive around it wandering if life would have turned out any better if I had survived in it but never seem to get an answer… so I don’t question it and don’t entirely suppress it: it dwells in me but its voice is toneless.

And so I remain alive. Still waiting patiently for someone to set me free, just not too sure it will ever truly happen.