There's always a choice

You ignore me until you need me to smile and agree to aid you in one way or another.

The silence lasts

for weeks.

Burning into my over-analyzing head as I attempt to bounce a rarely admitted original idea off of you.

You don’t seem to realize you are

the last

attempt

I am willing to

proactively

participate in solely through

my own actions.

The ideas bounce off of empty air, and act more like a bird struck by death in mid-flight

than a wall’s reply to the sphere

that contains my mental roots.

You rush to me out of anger,

out of fear,

out of helplessness.

Because whilst you hint at suspicions that they judge you silently,

I listen quietly, pushing my own opinions to the back,

and the encouraging affirmations to the forefront.

Your passion erupts into caps-lock confessions and misspelled drunk letters revolving in a perpetual cyclone.

But when I break the silence,

in the instances so few

and far between,

you insist on quieting my clues.

But I still leave them.

You insist on quieting my fears, and my plea for your ears,

brilliantly framed by your hair.

But I continue to try to fight away yours.

And you say you can’t handle it,

and you say it’s too much,

too much.

Just like how I find myself,

in every aspect,

at every angle.

Just

too

much.

And that is when I realize why you,

my last attempts,

want so much not to listen.