Those Things You Call A Poem

A Reflection of me

I am not lovable.

I eat yellow paint for breakfast and all day long, I wear a skin that blends in with what people are pleased to see. I’ve mastered the art of disguise. At night, i shed off camouflaged faces and bleed white lies into red pools. It’s not a very lovable sight.

I ride my mood swing as if it’s the only plaything spared from my childhood. I’m a patchwork of past mistakes, bad decisions, and unconfessed sentiments. I am stifled screams, withered dreams, and broken seams that i keep re-attaching during 2 am’s.

I am not what the package promises. I am not good. Not pretty. Not smart. I am chaos begging to be loved. A void longing to be filled up. I’m the horrific thing inside greedy for attention—asking to be seen even when all it wants to do is play hide and seek.

My hands are scarred from the tug-of-wars I didn’t want to lose. I keep pulling and heaving and tugging tears. I keep burning secrets out of fear that no one would be able to handle them. My closet overflows from ashes uncleaned for years.

I am games and vices and unstable promises.

I do not crave for validation, for messages convincing me that I’m good enough, for eyes in awe from the mask that they see. I do not want to be loved for being good or pretty or smart. I want a soul that would listen, as I let all the evil thoughts and irrational fears cascade, and would still be there by the end.

I do not want to be fixed. I want someone to understand that I cannot detach this chaos from me. I want to be loved as empty December streets, as cracked concretes and streetlights unlit.

I want my darkness to be loved and seen as much as the sunsets that I bleed.

— Romia Creshil, "unlovable"