Angsty Hyperbole on being shy (I never had myspace or live journal...)

I didn't say “hello,” to you.
You don't know who you are (unless you do).
But to those who know me (and if you know you're you then you likely do)
Know that I know that that was rude.

I don't mean to be rude.

But understand, any avoidance in this instance, was on the insistence of a recently and quickly coronated coronary spoiled little shit, 

One who sits in my chest cavity craving candy and cuddles.
One who, when asked “why?” answers with “because.”
A blood pumping brat with the two word vocabulary lub and dub.
I thought we'd gotten rid of the kid, but no one else would take him, so he stays.

It isn't that I'm given pause by what this monosyllabic matriarch says,
It's not in the how or what of what he says that stops me
It's his silence that shocks me
into
stillness.

Monarchy is dumb,
I'm gonna mince metaphors:

I'm the band and he's the drummer.
He's the drummer who incognito, infiltrated the heirarchy of the whole band,
By intentionally skipping one b-b-b-beat while the song was playing,
Staying the sound from starting and ending or upending the next verse that we rehearsed,
But then that lousy little lub-dub drummer made his maestro cue: One. Two. ONE! ...
...
...?

Is the silence intended or did the band just stop playing?
Ask the drummer: It was you.

If I had stayed- if I had attempted a word as big and as little as a greeting;
A skipped beat would repeat to become another
And another and another, until the whole of the entirety of my self till now, till upto to be, would be broken.
You would have broken me.
Three skipped beats could kill me
And then what would there be left for music for me?

So I weighed that against this:
I don't mean to be rude,
But I don't want to die from being too close to not close enough to you.
Even if the drummer in me, in a moment, was convinced
You're worth the whole band breaking up over.
I couldn't, so I didn't.

So instead, I'm rude.