Before; After

Fragments of Me

Fragments?

Pieces?

Or is it layers?

Something like that.

I give people pieces of me,

Fragments spread out across my life,

Basically, no one sees the whole picture,

Only a refracted one.

There are layers and layers of defensive shielding

To protect those fragments. I don't allow myself to be seen

Because the whole picture feels like too much.

If people can't handle the 2D fragments I show,

They won't be able to handle me in 3D.

Few stick around for more than one or two dimensions.

Connection requires a vulnerability

I'm not comfortable revealing.

It's why I made an atrocious actor.

Too scared to humiliate myself for a performance.

It's also what makes me a terrible friend.

Friendships require sharing,

And I'm stingy with my emotions

Because they threaten me,

And I don't want to be a burden.

At least that's what my head tells me.

It's why I'm not an ideal boyfriend or husband.

My emotions are too much for me.

They're too much for others,

Like this poem will be.

I rarely seem to get into a rhythm with people.

And just when I'm starting to feel comfortable

Enough to display more fragments of me,

They pull away. Or I pull away.

It's difficult to tell the difference.

Potential safety dissolved in saltwater.

Undrinkable. Out of reach.

So I hide away the new fragments

And wait for someone else who may want them.

Is this a panic attack?

Is that why I'm writing this,

To calm my racing heart?

See? I can't even keep this poem

From breaking into pieces.

A weight compresses my chest.

My head swims between pain

And blankness.

My breath, shallow.

I hold it because letting it go

Drags out tears, screaming.

Writing helps. So does wine. Whiskey.

Whiskey-wine-flavored poetry maybe?

God! I'm bad at this.