I'm not trying to make my flaws pretty,
I'm trying to make them perfect
turn on a softer song, so I can breathe
and make sure that it's worth it
if I'm not in the mood,
then what's the point of feeling these feelings?
what's the point in grieving when a love song is playing?
a dreamy night so soft and pure
is perfect for wrenching my heart out and letting it bleed all over these blank white pages
I like ruining them
because it's the only thing I can destroy with no remorse
I just wanna make a bad decision for once,
I'm tired of being so perfect
I'm pure and innocent until you look underneath,
because that's just how they like it
well, what if I displayed it all up front?
not just my nightmares, but my daydreams too?
would you still love me
if I let the darkness become as obvious as the light?
if I let my colors turn gray,
instead of switching violently from black and white,
would you still like me so much as to say it's love?
when I fix my hair and put on new clothes,
I don't care if other people find me pretty.
I just wanna find me pretty.
I just wanna feel good about myself.
it helps me feel like I'm chasing perfection,
slowly gaining on it,
but instead,
I am here,
squeezing my beating heart in my hand like a stress ball.
I'm not trying to make my flaws pretty,
I'm trying to make them perfect.
turn off the music, I can't see.
I need to make sure I'm worth leaving.
because I don't want to trap them here,
I want to let them know it's okay to leave,
because I kind of want them to, sometimes—
maybe then I'll avoid ruining them.
maybe then I'll be able to empty my head of social responsibility.
maybe then I'll stop feeling so fucking guilty.
I strive for absolute perfection,
but not in the absence of flaws.
but if my flaws are flawed,
that means my laws are flawed,
and I am small and breaking and can't handle much more than this.
I don't love them all out of love,
I love them out of obligation.
did you really think I'd love you
when you keep making me feel so bad about myself?
calling me an old woman?
preying upon my self-consciousness
just to get me to obey?
tell me,
do you think I love you?
can you tell me why?
and can you tell me how you want to be loved by me?
because it freaks me out that I don't know how you want me,
because I'm used to being given a set of instructions, a person to act like
that's why you all liked me in the first place,
and why I can't have you all in the same place.
I'm suffocating.
and yeah, I secretly do know what's wrong with me.
down to every last detail, I'd imagine.
but I either don't bring it up or don't tell you,
say I don't know,
because I don't want you to see the full extent of my darkness.
you already love me
I don't need to perform anymore
so why do I still want to tell you?
maybe I'm not performing anymore
that's scary.
actually, what's fucking terrifying
is that I've been bleeding my heart out onto pages
and then giving them to you
without you even asking
I know I overshare
and I'm awkward
and I almost never make any sense
but I do wonder if you understand these poems I write
there's significance to the ones I show you
maybe it's just that I'm proud
or maybe there's a little bit of you leaking into these words
that's terrifying to admit
I don't want you to see something bad and think it's you,
because it's not.
I'm just insecure and too scared to tell you just how much hell I've been through
and I don't want to scare you away
or burden you, because I know that my problems will weigh on you,
and I don't want to make you uncomfortable.
and I'm so, so awkward if I'm not in the right mood,
and I don't want you to think I'm anything but me
because I've been through that before
because of not understanding
and it haunts me
I cry a lot more than I tell you.
I only reach out to you when it's really bad.
I wonder what you think my life is—
what color it is, what emotions appear most, what energy I live in most often—
I wonder if you think I always tell you the full truth.
I am ashamed to say I don't.
I hold back words, hold my tongue gently between my teeth
I tell myself that I don't want to bring the mood down,
that I'm just repeating what someone once did to me
hah, I always think of myself as the villain
I've played the part for so long that it just comes as second nature.
did you know that I love my life more than anything?
I love to live,
to be alive,
and even to suffer.
it's all important.
but it's getting confusing now.
I'm losing weight because I don't eat,
and I'm losing my mind because I don't sleep.
my memory is getting worse and worse
I never seem to hear their words
I don't catch on as quick as I know I could
I fall short of my full potential, don't I....?
gods,
darling,
please tell me that I'm wrong.
you know what?
define me in your eyes.
I'm curious.
what and who am I to you?
be embarrassingly honest.
do it so I can have the courage to embarrass myself in front of you.
I'm tired, sweetheart,
I don't think I can be perfect for you much longer.
will whatever's left be just as enough?
I'm sometimes a beast,
sometimes the wilderness in my eyes overwhelms me so greatly
that I would devour the night whole if I could.
but sometimes,
I am calm.
simply put.
I am a steady flow, and my hands are soft.
intensity is a whisper in my ear,
a glint in my eye,
and sometimes it vanishes entirely.
it's a different kind of power,
really,
but I don't know how to say it.
tell me who I am.
what do you think of me?
do you want to know how I move?
you know, I have wanted to ask those questions to everyone I know for my whole entire life.
please, define me in your own words.
tell me who you know I am and who you think I am and who you suppose I could be.
guess about me.
you're the only person I'm asking.
maybe it's because I don't know much of what you think of me,
or maybe it's because I love you most.
you know...
all my poems seem to end up being about you, sometimes.
I start on an aching heart
and I end on an aching chest
but it is from a different kind of agony.
there is no sort of miscommunication going on here—
I'm just curious about odd things and thus insecure that I am curious.
I'm not trying to make my flaws pretty,
I'm trying to make them perfect.
I wanna make bad decisions,
I'm tired of always being so perfect, the perfect example,perfect role model, perfect moral compass.
tell me, if I let my colors change whenever i wanted to,
would you still try to flow with me?
if I showed you exactly the difference between my chaos and my calm,
would you be stupidly brave enough to look me in the face?
I hope you would.
you taste like home to me.
please,
will you promise to crawl into my arms sometime?
I promise that,
while I bite,
I won't bite you.
I'm even softer than I seem.
and though I like to think that my self-preservation
would keep me from doing anything too risky,
I would suffer for you.
is that enough?
I'm too scared to talk out loud.
is this enough?
you're the most intense being I've ever met, and I feel childish.
am I enough even like this?
I'm still learning how to care for myself, and how to talk, and how to not restrict myself based on social fears.
is that enough for you to work with?
am I enough when I am little?