I don’t know what to write
or maybe I do but I’m too scared to write it.
There’s so much in my head and
I don’t know If I want to sort through the mess.
I’ve never liked to clean
but maybe I’ve been cleaning my room so much lately
because I’m trying to tell myself to sort through the mess it my head.
I’m afraid to get close to people;
I tie myself tight to them
and they cut me off –
or is it me that cuts them off?
Who is holding the scissors?
I don’t know –
all I know is that now
when someone tries getting close
I’m a deer in the headlights and
sometimes I can’t move out of the way so
I get scared and run right into them:
sometimes they live
and sometimes they don’t.
Did I really cause that damage?
I didn’t mean to hurt you,
I promise –
but promises don’t help when you’re already in the grave
so I dig into my flesh –
the razor is my shovel.
I dig a grave and
as it scars over,
my troubles are buried
until they surface again:
and then
my body turns into a cemetery –
a graveyard filled with figurative bones
but the graves are real and
they stick out.
People notice them and
they don’t want to notice them
and I don’t want to notice them
so I try to cover them up but
clothes are only on for so long until
someone else comes along
and like a deer in the headlights
I either run off the road,
get hit,
or hit them.
It’s fight or flight
and I want to fly but
my wings aren’t always strong enough
you see they’ve been clipped so
sometimes I have no choice but
to run into you
in head on collision;
one dead
one injured but
not too bad –
just bad enough to leave a mark
but the marks pile up and soon
I’ll be a walking scar
a blemish
an accident
a mistake
broken
and no longer able to be fixed.
