on not singing

i don't know how to sing hallelujah these days. i just put my hand to my heart and pretend i'm not trying not to cry and hope that everyone else is genuine enough about worshipping jesus that they don't notice. (they are genuine. but they do notice.) i love the prayers of my real flesh-and-blood, with-me-in-this friends, so much that the tears escape quicker than i can even pretend i'm not trying not to cry. but i want them to be your prayers, your arm around my shoulders, and your eyes willing my tears to stop. i wanted, just then, in the imagined space before the 'i' that begins this pathetic little paragraph, to write something on here that would show you how much i hate you, but i love you too much to hurt you like that. i perversely wish that i could protect you from the knowledge of how shockingly badly you have treated me. it sort of disgusts me how i still want to protect you. because, no, there is nothing that you have done to deserve my love. there is no doubt in my mind, or anywhere near my mind, that you are not going to meet someone better than me.