*I’ve temporarily put aside the thankfulness and am letting the creativity pull me where it will. 30 Days of Writing
Between the Covers
I want to read your words, he tells me. I want to know what you think about, the things that you don’t feel like you can tell me.
Through the cracked bathroom doorway I stand after my evening shower and watch him bent down by the side of the bed, rifling through my journal. I know he will find things he won’t like, things he won’t understand. I lean an arm against the doorway and rest my head against it for a moment, mouthing the words I know he is reading. I can hear him flipping the pages quickly, he is looking for something specific.
I wonder how I should approach this, can i really be mad? After all, I have posted many personal things on my blog that complete strangers have read, what is one more stranger reading my words.
I stand and watch him until he is finished. He returns the leather bound notebook back to it’s hiding spot between the mattress and the boxspring and then I turn out the light and step into the bedroom, towel drying my hair, all the while my eyes on him. He smiles slightly at me but I can see in his eyes that he has read something he didn’t like.
Climbing into bed next to him I turn to hold him close but he pretends to stretch and wraps the blanket tightly around himself.
What is it, I whisper, What’s wrong.
He is silent for a moment before he speaks.
You’re not happy, he says, his tone flat yet hurt at the same time. You’re waiting for someone.
Not someone, something, I say quietly.
I know my words have hurt him. I know he will think that everything he does is not enough, that he is not enough, and in a way he’s right. I am waiting, I have always been waiting. But for what, I do not know.
I struggle to find the words to comfort him and find myself at a loss. I love him, he understands me better than anyone else in the world, yet there is still an emptiness that I cannot fill. When I am sure he is asleep, long after the early morning hours, I crawl over him and carefully pull my journal out from under his side of the bed. I write about the love I dream of, of acceptance and understanding that I desire, I write about hurt and anger that I know he will never understand.