I let you into a very exposing and vulnerable side of my life.
I am very fragile and sensitive.
The more you claim I am perfect, the less real I feel.
The less human I feel.
Perfect is not real.
Perfection is a perception.
I don’t want to be labeled as anything that is not me.
I don’t like it.
I will not allow it.
I’d rather choke than swallow
Those thick sticky words.
For once I’m happy to be
A picky eater.
I am not a body.
I am a soul.
Words I have said before,
But now found myself shouting
Loud enough to have you back away
Far enough to collect some space.
Your thoughts about me
Are not reality, just a fabricated fantasy
Created in your head.
I am not a made up character
Or this fleeting entity, like a fairy;
I don’t need claps to exist in this world.
I don’t need your beliefs for me live.
My skin has been hurt again and again.
Through my experiences,
My layers have thickened
Now calloused, and stiff
Which is why I’m self-conscious
Of holding hands.
And you’re not the man
Whose fingers I want to be laced with
Or tracing the tracks of my spine.
I am a hand written letter.
Never delivered
With an unlisted address
And words still unfinished.
Save your kiss, lips, and spit
For a different envelope
Don’t spend your pennies
Or waste your postage
On the mail that will come back to you.
I am free.
I am air.
Limitless, boundless, and ubiquitous.
Toxic if overdosed.
I change, never staying the same.
I circulate the room, and cannot be contained.
And **** the day you dare even try.
Watch me overflow, and spill all over the floor
Creating a sloppy mopless mess
Oozing through the edges
Seeping between the cracks.
I will not be held down
Wings clipped
And cage nailed to the ground.
I will not be suffocated.
I am air.
Yet, I cannot breathe.
Oct 23, 2013
Oct 23, 2013 at 12:51 AM UTC
I let you into a very exposing and vulnerable side of my life.
I am very fragile and sensitive.
The more you claim I am perfect, the less real I feel.
The less human I feel.
Perfect is not real.
Perfection is a perception.
I don’t want to be labeled as anything that is not me.
I don’t like it.
I will not allow it.
I’d rather choke than swallow
Those thick sticky words.
For once I’m happy to be
A picky eater.
I am not a body.
I am a soul.
Words I have said before,
But now found myself shouting
Loud enough to have you back away
Far enough to collect some space.
Your thoughts about me
Are not reality, just a fabricated fantasy
Created in your head.
I am not a made up character
Or this fleeting entity, like a fairy;
I don’t need claps to exist in this world.
I don’t need your beliefs for me live.
My skin has been hurt again and again.
Through my experiences,
My layers have thickened
Now calloused, and stiff
Which is why I’m self-conscious
Of holding hands.
And you’re not the man
Whose fingers I want to be laced with
Or tracing the tracks of my spine.
I am a hand written letter.
Never delivered
With an unlisted address
And words still unfinished.
Save your kiss, lips, and spit
For a different envelope
Don’t spend your pennies
Or waste your postage
On the mail that will come back to you.
I am free.
I am air.
Limitless, boundless, and ubiquitous.
Toxic if overdosed.
I change, never staying the same.
I circulate the room, and cannot be contained.
And **** the day you dare even try.
Watch me overflow, and spill all over the floor
Creating a sloppy mopless mess
Oozing through the edges
Seeping between the cracks.
I will not be held down
Wings clipped
And cage nailed to the ground.
I will not be suffocated.
I am air.
Yet, I cannot breathe.
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