Open To Interpretation

Metaphors

i could shove a metaphor down your throat in every sentence. i could tell you about how the air i breathed was so thick that it felt like i was drowning in tar. i could go in depth about the way i whispered to myself when i thought no one was listening, because the words liked to rock climb up my throat and whitewater raft off my tongue. i could list all the details of a meteor shower that i'd never seen before, but i felt like i knew better than i knew the labyrinth that lived atop my palms. i could even look you in the eyes and describe the cute little laughter fairies that pranced among the dandelions that were your freckles and how much i loved the golden sunshine and other bullshit about how life is so goddamn beautiful. that's all i have to offer to you. the only silver platter i have to offer up my own suffering on is the figurative language that i learned in sixth grade. that's the only way you'll listen. if i beat around the bush and tell you everything that hurts by wrapping it in flashy ribbons, then you'll finally swallow what i have to say. i can't tell it to you straight, because you won't want it. i can't open up to you, because you'll think i'm lying. you can't pretend not to understand when i'm spoon-feeding it to you. you can't continue to ignore the 350 million people like me when i put it in words that you find so goddamn beautiful. it's real. it hurts. stop fighting it.