"I'm Fine."

How I wish I could believe you. If only for a second.

I want you to be okay. 

I want you to want me to want you to be okay. 

But how can I know for sure 

when all you offer me is a dry smile and icy words? 

 

Should I press further? 

Would you want me to? 

If I do, will you promise not to be angry with me? 

If you do, will you then lie about it 

like you did your current state? 

Will you put on your perfect disguise of a grin and walk away,

or will you melt under the heat of my questioning? 

 

I want to hug you. 

I want you to seem like you want me to hug you. 

If I do, will you promise not to shove me away? 

Will you stiffen in my embrace

or will you realize that I'm not trying to save you from solitude's grasp, but trying to save myself?

 

Should I ask?

A million questions whir through my mind

but I am unable to voice a single one. 

If I manage to choke out 

a pitifully worded concern

Will you suspect that it’s for my own gain?

 

I want to believe that you won't find me obnoxious.

That you won't turn away, or laugh at my assumptions.

I want to hear the ice melt from your voice,

see the painted smile drip from your face,

and feel your rigid chest tremble with the drumming of your bleeding heart. 

 

Then again, if I don't, will I seem uncaring? 

Are you simply waiting on me to make a move? 

I cant help but try to understand your reasoning

when I’m nowhere near comprehending my own.

If you really were fine, you would stop me 

from falling deeper and deeper into self-contradicting insanity. 

 

I want to hate you. 

I want you to realize that I want to hate you.

I want to hate the way you pretend to be so indestructible

When really you’re just as broken and damaged as I am

and still have the audacity to look me in the eye

and utter the words, “I’m fine.”

 

Sure, just walk away. 

Abandon me here, doubting my mental health for your sake.

Leave me staring at your back

whilst sinking, 

Flailing,

Drowning.

It’s fine.

 

Your form grows smaller in the distance.

I start to wish that I didn't sound so self-regarding;

So pointless, so random. 

I tend to overthink situations, please understand.

Please don't hate me. 

I hate myself enough.

 

Perhaps, I think, you just don't understand how much more awful those two words sound--so much worse than the truth. 

They make me sick with fear for you, for myself: 

I’ve let them turn me selfish without hesitation.

Their sound produce a gripping feeling in my heart 

that I might just be going crazy. 

I'm becoming more willing to let you loath me for my own sake;

for the sake of loving you. 

 

"Fine", I whisper. 

It's one of those words, I realize. 

The kind that begins to sound strange 

after so many times it rests on your tongue. 

It's bitter, and I try to choke back its taste. 

 

There it is again, that feeling. 

I want to run after you, embrace you, ask if you really are alright. 

It's what I want with all my heart.

If only you'd want me to want it.