trigger warning: insecurity, social anxiety
i am trying to make you happy. i think i do a pretty bad job at this, but it could just be my anxiety. because my anxiety is like a news reporter, twisting milk spills into catastrophes, whispering a constant rush of both dark & terrifying things. & i’m not going to go into detail, but i am going to say that it is constant and paralyzing & it is difficult to look at my hands without thinking about the things they could destroy. i am going to say that i just want to be beautiful when i look in the mirror, because i think it would make you happy, and i don’t know if that’s true or not, but. i like the idea, of being pretty. like the idea of all the broken pieces finally fitting together, perfectly. and sometimes the hardest part is knowing that none of this, no matter how hard i try, is ever going to be perfect, and that feels impossible to accept for me. and i’m trying to make you happy, but god everything they’ve ever said about me is burning tattoos into my skin, and the words feel like bullets going right in, and i don’t know how to be numb to it when you told me not to be numb to it, and the dot dot dot of your train of thought seems to go on endlessly, and i can’t breathe, and i can’t really think clearly but i do know that i need your hand to accompany me because when i’m with you i don’t have to think about my anxiety, and i’m falling apart piece by piece my skin flaking away i’m falling apart so i can mold myself into something politically correct & appealing. & my brain is a lightbulb, and it’s clicking off again. and i’m in the dark again. and i’m trying to feed myself silence for medicine. but i’m having trouble ironing out my brain, and i know this isn’t how you be a good friend. but i’m trying to make you happy, and i want to make you happy, and i want to make you love me so you’ll fill the empty space inside me where trusting other people and feeling safe inside my skin should be and i’m not really sure what i’m doing but you have me your heart and you told me. and in other people’s poetry, they talk about calmness. they talk about the kind of conviction that makes you forget anything outside. but my anxiety, it doesn’t let me feel those things. and i don’t think you understand that insecurity should be a disease, because it’s killing me. and because i feel like a ghost most days, like my skin is see through, and maybe that’s why sometimes there are earthquakes, and the reason i throw my arms around you and cling really tight for no real reason sometimes is because i’m having trouble thinking clearly and it helps to be near you because i love you and i need to focus on something happy and how did i let my brain hurt every part of me and leave seeds of self-hatred in even my happy and there are a thousand fragmented thoughts running through my brain and i’m not sure if it’s called depression when you watch yourself from above and you curl up into a ball and look away and you think about death and nothing matters some days but i don’t care what you call it because it’s all really fucking complicated and my eyes slip closed, and i don’t know what i’m doing or why through all the shit you think i’m still worth knowing, but all this mess of a poem is trying to say is is it ok if i disagree with you? because i half love and half hate the fact that i care about you enough that i know i’m going to.
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