He asked to read a poem.
All I heard was
"Show me the real you"
So personal we make these writings
If only people read them with as much love as we write them
Because for us these aren't merely love letters or confessions
These are us opening ourselves up and letting everything fall out
hoping maybe they could pick the pieces up and hand them to us again
rearrange them to fit exactly as they desire
"Show me the real you"
I cringe
Does he really want to see where I came from?
Who I loved last?
Where we all went wrong?
It's all so simple
until the past returns
and Even though we write just to conquer our pasts
We never want to look back and be those moments again
The real me.
The real me is in this moment.
I don't want him to be just another poem on the page
I don't want him to think he's just another
love letter
I don't want him to think I'm this crazy hopeless romantic that
misconstrues *** with love
abandonment with togetherness
caresses for self-esteem
I want to show him that I love fiercely
But I don't want him to know that I've been broken.
What do I show him...
Just a hypothetical situation. Whenever we enter freshly new relationships with people we know nothing about, we have a chance to recreate ourselves into the person we want them to see us as. But as writers, we leave a paper trail, and yes its easy to reject them from our art. But thats rejecting them from us. I speak so highly of my passion for writing, I anticipate the day he asks to read a piece. Then I think, my favorite pieces are the ones about my love for others, good or bad. Thus, showing him the real me.