hold my hand. dress my wounds in white lies and false confidence. go ahead. butter me up. make me pancakes for breakfast; drizzle syrup over gentle clouds of whipped cream. kiss me on the forehead.
bind my stories together with borrowed time, and scraps of thread. walk for miles through the stormy weather, and say it’s love. but we both know your intent.
sit beside me on those long, cold nights by the fire. and i think i could just stay by your side forever…
because if i sunbathe in the archipelago of your eyes, i am cleansed of my regrets. so tie me up to the sailboat, and shove a gag in my mouth right where it’s supposed to be. let the sirens sing their song; let them come for me.
because in this pretty red dress, all i know is that you love me. tonight. and i am so desperate to forget…
Sometimes, I get tired of honesty.
Growing up, I always asked people not to shelter me–told them that I could handle it. And so they told it to me, just like it was. No matter how much it hurt. There was a certain pride I felt, in being able to survive subjecting myself to insults, or reading about things I was far too young to know about. In retrospect, I wish I could have just stayed blind for a few more years, blissfully ignorant.
But despite all that talk of honesty and transparency, I’m definitely not immune to using denial as a coping mechanism. With a brain like mine, sometimes I just have to ignore what’s going on around me, and put all the bad things in a little box, so I can keep functioning until they’re over, and then maybe I’ll be able to sit down and process it.
But of course, the only issue with that, is that eventually, all those icky bad emotions just build up into this giant nightmare of sadness and anger and guilt that just weighs down on me. Which is kind of where I’m at now, honestly. I’m so tired of having to patch it up with white-lies and dodge around awkward conversations, both with other people and myself–but I also don’t think I can handle the full extent of what a mess I am right now.
Lots of love,