sometimes,
i cannot tell whether or not people
are telling me things i prefer to hear
just to spare me the pain of the truth.
wicked it may be, but the truth is still the truth, and i am not a liar to myself.
sometimes,
i cannot tell whether or not i am
acting on other people's feelings towards me. more than half the time i am blind to the truth there. the truth that i can't love you.
sometimes,
i cannot tell whether or not this
feeling of dread and discomfort in my own skin is temporary. the feeling in my gut saying that maybe i am not as good as i thought.
sometimes,
i cannot tell whether or not
i love you.
and that scares me the most. i can rot in my own body for eternity and i can listen to everyone's lies on repeat,
but if i do not know what true love is,
and if it is even with you,
then i cannot tell whether or not
i would want to continue.
r.k.
YOU ARE READING
Meathead Monologue
PoetryI wanted everyone and everything; all the time and all at once. [volume ii] [poetry and prose] [2017-2019]
