Poetry

I don't know how to tell you I'm broken without feeling needy
I don't know how to open up without feeling judged
I don't know how to love without feeling vulnerable
I don't know how to cry without feeling like my tears are acid

I just need someone to see that I'm hurting without me telling you
My words are bleeding out of my mouth
Waiting for you to stitch me up and make me fine

I know it's not your job
I know you're better off without me
I know I'm poison to you
Yet I still crave your acceptance
Still yearn for your love, your comforting arms

I need you to see me one last time
Not just look at me
I need you to see past my facade, the mask I put on to avoid questions
I need you to see the real me, the one that's been hiding behind the depression all these years
Hiding behind fake smiles and laughter

The real me has been lurking, waiting for someone like you to peel back the layers
One by one
Revealing my true self, damaged beyond repair, yet eager for company
It gets lonely buried so deep beneath the exterior
Never seeing the sun, never feeling the warmth of human emotion

This is the real me
Broken
Shattered
Cast aside

But it is the existence of people like you that allow me to stay hopeful
Hopeful that someday you will notice
That someday you will peel back the first layer
And the next
And the next
That someday someone will care enough to look further than the fake smile

Hopeful that you will see me, the real me, and not run away

Peel me down to the bone and you will see the real me
You will see that I am more than what people expect me to be
I am more love than hate
I am more fire than water
I am more light than dark
I am more like you and less like them
More soul
More pain
More blood
More human
But they will never know this

What I am trying to say is that maybe, just maybe
I love too much
And I show it too little
And for that I am sorry

I'm sorry if I've ignored you
I'm sorry if I've insulted you
I'm sorry if I've turned you down, again and again, yet still expected you to be there
I don't mean it, none of it

It's just that sometimes I have bad days
And on these bad days, it's not the real me talking
It's the cynical, depressed, pessimistic voice in my head
The voice I don't have the energy to shut down
The voice that takes pleasure in being cruel and careless
In my head, it's a constant battle of this voice against me
And on the bad days, I'm waving the white flag, surrendering to the voice, hoping I'll have the energy to fight back tomorrow