My darkness is a blanket, but I find it hard to pull around you. It seems it would be easy enough. I could just clutch the two corners and wrap them ‘round your shoulders until they tie together.
Knotted, in the middle of your chest.
And there they’d hang, the blanket’s twisted ends, weighty over your heart.
I could pull it over your head. Cover your eyes with it. Stop you from seeing me.
From seeing anything.
Because it’s not one of those thin blankets. The kind that grant grainy particles of light. No peeking through to the other side.
Not with this one.
Once you’re in it, it’s thick. And heavy.
You won’t see hazy silhouettes through it. No subtle motion. Once you’re under it, it’s black. Bleak.
No light. No movement. No hope.
You’ll ask me to. Even tell me you want the darkness. You’ll beg to be wrapped in it, if you think it will help me. You’ll promise to be okay behind its all-encompassing eclipse.
You’d lie if you thought it would ease my burden.
I know better. I know what it will do to you. To your spirit. To your sensitive soul.
But in the end, I’ll share my blanket with you anyway.
Because I’m human. And I need you.