Walking on Thin Ice

I can't. I can't. I can't.
I could say it a hundred times over but I still wouldn't be able to convince myself. 
I don't want to sleep, I don't want to eat, I don't want to cry, I don't want to smile, I don't want this.
I think I need to learn how to not think as much.
I'm walking on thin ice here. 
And even though I'll never be brave enough to tell you that maybe I loved you,
you'll never be brave enough to admit the sadness in your voice is because maybe you loved me too.
But they'll always be something, some excuse that keeps you from me because you're too afraid.
You're too afraid to tell me that you're walking on thin ice too.
That every time I say maybe I could,
there is some line that disqualifies me,
because I could never be that.
And maybe I'm hoping in cracks,
but the more we walk together the thicker the ice gets
and the more I know,
that the ice just keeps getting thicker,
I can't. I can't. I can't.

--But this is just another autobiography, examining the prosopography of me.
By: Emma Marie.