Do not assume I won't get hurt just because I have thick skin, and you've never seen me bleed. You don't know about the battles that took place on my body in the past, that left pools of scarlet around my enemies' dismembered pieces and the stab wounds that never really healed. Do not assume that your words won't cut deep into me because I laugh everything off with a wave of my hands. You do not know all the words that have imprinted themselves on my mind, the ones my demons never let me forget when I'm alone and sad. Do not assume I'm a happy person because I sometimes leave blossoming flowers on the ground I walk on and have a smile like a beam of sunshine in summer. Do not underestimate the power of my silence just because my voice is like the thunder that shakes the ground when storms hit. Do not assume assume I'm strong because you haven't seen me crumble under the weight of the world. Because I'm not.
I'm not any of these things. I'm insecure beyond imagination. I would lose sleep over little facts, I would obsess until I went mad. I would claw and claw at your catchphrase trying to figure out what it meant, why you said that, what should I do? I keep on wearing armor and walking into battle. I keep on doing it even though I shouldn't. I win some, lose some. It's kind of hard to keep trak when you go to war with yourself. I could show you the bite marks right now, right here on my mind, if you want to see. I know you didn't mean to do this much harm when you said what you said. But your words cut so deep that the Pacific ocean could could fill the holes you left in me. Do you want to see the tears I once cried? They could flood the Sahara desert in seconds. Should I tell you the stories behind them so you could drown like I did? Over and over and over until the heat of pain ruled over the sadness, until my tears dried out entirely, and now I can't cry even to save my pathetic life. Have you ever seen me wordless? Without a joke, a story, an incident to tell? Maybe you have, maybe not. You're lucky if you haven't. You do not want the company of a ghost that lingers around as if waiting for death, but knowing it won't come because it already has. I've crumbled so many times and tried to put myself back together but I can't seem to find all the pieces so I'm mostly hollow inside. I'm a mess - a fucking tragic mess - with a fake smile painted on my face whenever I see you.
But I'm still a fucking mess, and sometimes, sometimes, you don't know how badly I wish I wasn't.
YOU ARE READING
Acedia
Poetry[ A c e d i a : ennui ; state of torpor or listlessness ; spiritual apathy ] Poetry attempts / Random thoughts / Musings (P.S. I'm not very good at this, don't expect too much. Thanks)
