I want to tell you what’s wrong with me.
I want to be able to rip myself apart, and show you everything inside of me.
And I know that sounds gross but this fabricated honesty is ripping me apart already.
For I am just a figure of your imagination,
Mixed with the imaginations of everyone else around me.
I never try to be honest.
Because honesty is never the best policy.
I have given parts of me to others,
And watched them devour it before me.
I have told things to lovers,
And watched them covet it for low blows.
And god knows I just want to be honest...
But this fear that surrounds me never lets me speak,
So I hide behind lies telling you that I’m fine,
And that everything has always been great.
I want to tell you the secrets that keep me up at night.
I want to tell you the things that give me fright...
But I know when I do you will look at me differently.
Even if you say that you won’t,
Your judgement will seep through,
And feed my anxiety.
It’s not that I’m not comfortable with letting you know.
I just know that this will be a bad idea.