Sometimes, I get embarrassed.
By my awkward, goofy features.
By my pretentious, know-it-all attitude.
By my anxious, self-concerned demeanor.
I act big, and I talk bigger.
I am the loudest.
I cut people off.
I take up space in conversation,
and in theaters
and on buses
and at restaurants
and in my own home.
Where I seem to be growing outwards,
only to be trapped
in myself.
My anxious, awkward, earthly existence.
I fumble and struggle and slip.
I become a pathetic pile of self doubt.
I am suddenly the embodiment of embarrassment.
And sometimes, I get
embarrassed.
But
mostly,
I embarrass myself.

I refuse to let you
break me.
Because I don't even know you,
and because
I cannot be broken
..anymore than I have
already
broken myself.
I refuse to let you turn me into
something I am
not.
Not before I know what
I really
am.
I will grow and expand to
one thousand times the size of anything
you have ever
been.
You can keep your fame
and your photos
and your happy little
life.
I am determined.
And I will be busy.
I will be making
mine.

Sometimes, I feel like I'm
moving
backwards.
I like myself less and less,
and a
little
less
each day.
Jealousy and sickness grow
rampant
inside me.
My head has been swelling
for months on end,
and my heart has been
shrinking
and shriveling.
I don't feel like
myself
anymore.
I am sad
and bitter
a irritable.
So many things I never was
before.
I go searching for
disappointment,
and still turn up
even more
empty
handed.
Everything hurts in me.
My body is giving up on me.
I begin each day
with my head
throbbing.
I can't eat.
I don't sleep.
And I am steadily losing
patience,
and
myself.
He's back.
That same monster.
From so many years before.
I wish he would leave me alone.
And yet I am still here,
fighting.
An ongoing war
inside
myself.

I should start writing again.
Start crafting my thoughts into words instead of
watching your every move.
Start writing again instead of
envying
you,
girl with the make-up.
Girl with the tools to use it.
Girl that should go to beauty school .
You, girl, who wants to get paid to be
pretty.
And I have to wonder why it is
you
that I envy.
Why not the smart girls?
The successful girls?
No, you.
With the boyfriend who you love who does
everything
for you.
You, who has barely reached the cusp of adulthood
with no adult mentality
to show for it.
Why you?
With the glamorous life,
that I so envy.
Because I should know better.
That every glamorous life is riddled with
sickness and
sadness.
But I envy you,
girl.
Me with my lonely little scribbles,
and you
with your thousands of loyal, devoted followers.
They don't know you any better than I do .
Yet I am the one writing a poem about
you.
The girl who I am so intrigued by,
for reasons unbeknownst to me.
The girl who's glamorous life I can see right through.
I envy you.

I am no longer searching for reasons of why you would leave me.

Watching the lines grow deeper on your face
every time that I
doubted
your presence.

"I'm not going anywhere."
You have chimed, again and again.
Frustrated and flickering in and out of consciousness,
but resilient enough to repeat yourself
over,
and over.

Like a faint, but still glowing lightbulb,
in a cold basement cellar.
You do not light the way, but you provide some
comfort and warmth.
And without you I would certainly be
left in the dark.

You are safe.

I like that as time has gone on, I have crushed your castle walls,
piece by piece.

There are moment where I still find sensitive spots,
and I can see your shell snap shut around you whenever I run my
hands, or
words
across them.
So strong-willed in your solitude.

I have learned how you live your life like a current.
Drifting from place to place,
simply along for the ride.

I have seen your cool, collected, cavalier crusade
crumble and crack into
silent tongues, and sad, sorrow stares through soft eyes.

I have seen a boy who sheds tears for no one say
"I'm sorry"
through crystal, crying eyes.

My eager heart pushed it's way into an
entrance, just ajar,
and when the clam shell cranium slammed shut like a car door,
I was left broken and bleeding like a
smashed pinky finger.

So then I wondered
why would you shut up all of your doors to
the only person who has seen
windows
to your soul?

Every time you opened them,
I pried my way to the curtains, and
peered inside.
Hoping to steal tiny glimmers of your
light, until they could only
flicker.
In and out of existence,
like they are not sure if this is the right
room.
Or even the right house.

Foggy and blurry, you might close them
to get some rest,
or just recharge, if only for a moment.

But when a blinking, bleeding heart,
still beating and bright,
says it is lost, and in need of more light,
you might draw the curtains a little more tight,
just for the night,
and wake up in darkness.

When I demanded you light my way after I had
subdued your sunshine,
why would you leave anything unsaid?

But then again,
why wouldn't you?

Concerned with image.
Hard to tell what decisions
I make for myself.

With every attempt
Neatly placed in a showcase
And shared openly.

Pencil pushing past
Writer's block; rubbing your eyes
'Til they're only bags.

I want to do some
Thing for myself, for only
My own desire to.

Yet still here needing
gratification for my
own satisfaction.

How can you feel proud
Of something that's been seen by
You, and you alone?

Pride stemmed, not from self,
But my need for approval.
To be justified.

So many sorrys.
For things with no offense I
Would apologize.

Considering my
Image. Always picturing
The scene I am in.

Viewing my life from
How it might look with someone
Else's perspective.

And I am amazed
That I could take this mind and
Make it look so good.

But in truth it is
Far frazzled and forgotten.
Ha ha. Tricked them all.

Iced coffee and streaks of sunlight,
it is too early for me to be awake
without you.
People keep telling me I will be
healthy and happy,
and I know that.
But morning time sunshine
spilling in through windows,
makes me think of times spent
smiling in silence.
Before we started sleeping in silence,
and loving in silence,
and living in silence.
All good things must come to an end,
some endings are just more difficult than others.