if you want an answer, why do you turn it down?

If your arms are outstretched to shrink back before I could fall into them, why blame me?

Your eyes are just as alive as mine, and your doubts are as shaky, but you'd rather both of us be wrong than consider the similarities.

When the clear glaze of the screen accepts the doubled scratch, you pretend to ignore it until it's ok.

But is it ever?

And even if it is, do you care?

All you want is to make everyone feel like shit because you can't handle believing you're the only one.

So every night you type and type and wish for some sort of an answer to turn it down again and again until none come and it's too late.

Too late for change, and the change is you.

But what if I came and ripped you in little dirty pieces and took photos, millions of them, to show everyone every speck of dirt?

Would that be your death or just the beginning?

Because death is as cold as the double-scratched screen and the black keys of your new keyboard, you relate.

Still, the refreshed pages light up your face like her silence, and the dirt in your smile reminds me of the rest of you.