by no fault of their own

some people just don't understand.
some people don't understand that sometimes it's better not to talk about it, that it's better to just let the memories come on their own, in that quiet, delicate sort of way than to force them upon your broken heart before it's ready. some people don't understand that the relics of childhood and first loves and heartbreaks belong in boxes under beds, not to be touched again for years until the longing for them has faded, until the wounds have scabbed and scarred and healed. some people don't understand that music is the soul in song, and art is the very blood of you, poured out on canvas or paper or cloth- they don't understand that to touch these things if they're not your own is one of the most intimate, volatile things one can do. they don't realize that these things make the artist feel vulnerable, overwhelmed and afraid, as if they're standing naked in front of you against their will. some people don't understand that you don't choose to feel certain things, that you can't pick your emotions like you pick your favorite flavor out of a bag of skittles, and leave all the unfavorable ones behind. some people simply don't understand these things, these concerns of the heart.