an ire for bards and other things.

the parts of me.

would you still love me if i told you that i am not just who i say i am?

would you still love me if i showed you every inch of my being —
skin torn,
mind scattered,
and tongue sharp?

some are terribly hard to start loving;
i am not one of those people.
instead, i traded that in for a different hand:

it is terribly hard for others to keep loving me.
they get tired.
tired of my anxieties,
tired of my temper,
tired of my mood swings,
tired of my black,
tired of my white —

i cannot blame them for leaving.

and
the truth is,
i am terrified of losing you.
you are my entire world;
at the same time, it wouldn't be fair to you
if i kept
me
a secret.

as we grow closer,
and closer,
and
closer still,
i start to get scared. .
you're closer to finding the skeleton in my closet.

i'd rather you leave now, then pretend to love me forever.

so here i am,
laid out for all to read;
made up for only your eyes to see.

~

tell me how you feel.