April 19, 2002
You give me that emergency-fetal-position-I-don't-wanna-hear-it-please-stop-talking- to me type feeling. Why does your truth cut through me like a knife? You strike at the heart, straight and true. And I fall, fast and devastated. Why do you have to be so goddamned precise with your incisions? Why must you dissect the dichotomy of my soul? Why must your analysis of me be so spot-on? I say I want truth, and in the end, I suppose I do, but that does not negate the injury incurred from your razor sharp tongue. Thank you for keeping me rooted in reality. I need it.