I keep pushing you away,
out of my life,
away from my doubts,
from the dark, illusory world
and the misconceptions I hold.
Especially when you come close,
when you offer me hope,
when you are kind enough
to try to understand
the life I carry in silence
and all the pain it holds.
I envy the way you could see
streams in a desert,
and a rainbow across
a sun-scorched land;
life within an egg,
resting quietly in its nest.
I envy how you accept criticism
and still remain hopeful
about an unpredictable future,
one bright with possibility.
And when you began to include me
in those imagined dreams,
casting me as the main character
in your romantic films,
I saw myself differently.
I saw myself as the witch
who tears a family apart,
as the bird
that destroys another bird’s nest
without giving it a second thought.
So, my love,
if you truly know me,
then you should know by now
that pushing you out of my life
is the way I care for you,
and the way I show my love.
I want you to survive,
not to suffocate.
I want you to be happy,
not to hallucinate
about me
and the life we could have shared.
Because I am like a storm:
beautiful from afar,
but not something
to be endured from within.