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The Laughter of a Churl
Maybe it was because I was sad.
Or maybe it was because he actually is funny, but for some reason I found him hilarious.
Everything was so heavy—my eyes, my heart, my head—I didn’t want to eat for a week.
I knew that if I indulged that wish, though, that my parents would immediately notice something was up.
I didn’t want them to see my weakness.
I never wanted anybody to see my weakness.
I was INTJ.
I was supposed to be independent and strong.
And I am.
But I am also terribly weak when it comes to affairs of the heart.
If people are mean or do not find my presence pleasing to them, I cry.
I hold my heart in my hand and no matter how hard I strain I can never seem to put it down.
The seams of it are sewed into my skin and I can never hide it.
It is always there for you to see.
Upon first contact I am already trying to fall in love with you.
I try so hard—always, palm up; fingers stretched back revealing it all; begging you to accept it or crush it under your fingernail.
It’s so small, you see.
I never seem to have enough room for as many people as others hold close to them.
I put everything I have in that little heart into the person I value the most.
Maybe there will be two, maybe three at most.
But it’s almost always one.
But my love never seems to be enough.
Interesting enough; exciting enough; positive enough; healthy enough; stimulating enough.
And this isn’t about something as petty as romance.
I never thought that highly of it.
There are all sorts of other kinds of love—I’m talking about plutonic love.
I put everyone else first, always.
And I cannot live my life any other way.
I care about people so much it hurts—so much that I try to be as close to as few people as possible.
I want to foster genuine intimacy without all the bull**** and small talk in those spare few people.
I love them.
But they never seem to put me first.
I’m never at the top of their list like they are on mine.
And that always hurts.
I try to get over it, and sometimes I manage to—but at great expense of my own sanity.
I have to pour out my own meaning and value until the vial is then less than half full.
If I have less meaning, then their caring less is justified.
I wish it didn’t have to be this way.
But the tremendous care and effort I put into people cannot be undone.
I forge it hard and hot within my heart and when people do not take my hand or let go of it they shatter worlds.
The worlds I sculpted for lie under their toes and crunch under their heels as they walk away.
Hand in hand with someone else.
Why does it have to be this way?