I really hate art.

I mean really hate art.

All I could manage to pencil out was

A disproportional stick figure.

 

So when I walked in and you shoved paper and crayon in my hand

I was less than happy.

And to top it all off,

You wanted me to display my feelings.

Two things I cannot stand:

The fragility of crayons which always ends up in two pieces broken in half 

And vulnerability.

 

We talk about our feelings like they don't belong to us.

I feel like I should be talking in third person.

If our words were hugs

We’d be running into each other,

Arms crossed over our chests.

We have not even scratched the surface and still

I feel raw.

I am teetering on edge.

On the edge of getting up and leaving,

Running away from what I feel.

But I don’t.

I sit there and 

I wait.

Wait until our feelings resemble something that look like “progress”

I sit there and

I wait.

Time’s up.

"Yes, that works just fine," I say.

"I’ll be back next thursday."