It's complicated.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"You know you can tell me anything..."

"Yes."

"So talk to me."

"It's complicated."

"Okay. Suit yourself."

It's complicated
It always is
But in truth, it isn't
The truth is simple
So simple
Too simple.


Then why do I
dismiss pressing problems as
too-complicated-to-talk-about?


Because it isn't complicated,
so when I tell a person
whatever is bothering me,
they would go on and on and on about
how they know exactly how I'm feeling.

They've been through it all too.
And they survived.
They swam back to the surface,
filled their bursting lungs
with fresh air.
They lived to tell the tale.

And I don't need to hear that.

When you are sinking, the thought of the world outside doesn't give you enough hope to struggle against the force that has you enveloped.

It is help reaching out to you that pulls you up.

When you talk about how life gets better, I see no reason to push through my problems, despite how trivial they are.

When you tell me how you swam to the shore, all I want to do is push you in to an ocean and hope the currents take you away.

So I go with the easy answer of  'it's complicated.'

It's complicated because you are too self-centered to listen, for just a second.

It's complicated because you would never care enough to know me.

It's complicated because the world is too simple.

Too fragile.

It's complicated.

This is why I write.

Because this page will never tell me,

"Oh! I know what you are going through.

I went through a similar thing last year..."

You could have my words. You really could. But you won't.


You won't because you don't care.


Not about me, anyway.