I lie.
I cry.
I scream until the walls shake,
until the dogs bark three streets over.
I make people mad.
I twist their love into knots,
leave them holding pieces of me
I’ll never get back.
It’s not that I want to—
God, I don’t want to.
I’m filled with love,
I swear I am.
I carry laughter in my chest
like a burning engine,
but somehow
it always comes out wrong.
Too hot,
too wild,
burning holes in everything
I touch.
I try to be better.
I try to hold steady,
but the ground shifts under me,
always has,
like I was born on some fault line
no one else can see.
One moment,
I’m standing tall,
telling jokes,
making them laugh,
feeling light—
like maybe,
just maybe,
this time I’ll get it right.
And then—
snap.
Something breaks,
some unseen wire in my head.
I **** it up again.
The lies spill out before I can stop them,
dumb little things
that don’t matter
but somehow
always do.
I don’t even know
what I’m lying for.
I just see the wreckage
and keep piling more onto it.
I see the way they look at me—
people I love,
people I want to hold onto—
and I can tell
they’re wondering
how much more
they can take
before they go mad too.
And still,
I keep going.
Keep tearing at the seams.
It’s not that I want to,
but what else
is there to do?
Maybe that’s life.
Maybe it wrecks us all,
drags us through its mess
until we’re raw
and ragged,
trying to find love
in the middle of it,
trying to laugh
so we don’t cry all the time.
I don’t want to make them sad.
I don’t want to be this way.
But somehow,
I always end up
standing in the ruins,
laughing through the tears,
wondering
how it got so ******
again.
I guess that’s life.
It destroys everyone,
slowly,
relentlessly,
until there’s nothing left
but the love you tried to give
and the madness
you couldn’t hide.
And maybe,
just maybe,
that’s enough
to keep going.