Sometimes

Sometimes I want to talk about it. I mean, I want to really talk about it. Because it's hard to keep me bottled up. Sometimes it just feels like I'm like a soda can in the freezer, about to explode, because I haven't talked about it in too long and sometimes it's like everyone forgot, and sometimes it's like there's nothing for me to do but remember. Sometimes it's all I can think about, because it was such a big problem. It's hard for me to be like this, because, no, I'm not okay. I want to be, if that counts for anything. It doesn't though, does it?
But it doesn't though.
It's an escape for me, thinking of being home. Where is it, home, and when will I find it? Because I need it. It's what I think when I just need to not be where I am: I want to be home. And home is where the heart is, but my heart feels pretty far right now. I know it's there; I can feel it racing when he's here, pounding when I'm thinking about what happened, hurting when it's another compliment that I don't deserve. So it's there. And home isn't here, so I guess we all know how this is working.
I want to go home.
home home home. What is that anyway? What does that even mean? Because it's not where I live, it doesn't seem to be where my family is, despite my loving them, and it's not with him, which was what I was hoping for. And it sucks. Because it's my escape, home, and I can't find it. The only thing I have to use to escape from everything is an abstract idea I don't understand, can't attain, and can't find. What a good way to live a life, right? Dreaming of something that I might never find.
I want someone to talk to.
I want it. I want it really bad, but that's also out of reach. Because it can't be her, because it just wouldn't feel right. And it can't be him, because it's just not him, it's just not what I can see. And I don't want to take it back to the woman behind the pad on that couch that barely shifts at her slight existence, judgement all I hear. She doesn't care. Why should she? All she's there to do is tell me how far I am from being okay. What's motivating me to be honest with her? She has other clients to care about. Why should she care about me. At all. No reason.
I need someone who actually wants to hear it. I need someone who's not going to judge me, and not going to tell me how well I'm doing, or bullshit a lot about how much they care about me. They must know me already, because meeting me after already knowing is absolutely no good.
I need someone to talk to, and I need home.
But they've all forgotten, so what do I matter? I'm pretty much nothing any more. Just that other daughter they have, who they love dearly.

it's not that hard to listen...

I know she loves me. I mean, she has to. It's in her job description. But every word goes in one ear and out the other, leaving her confused. Did you say something? I can't hear you, can you speak up? No mom, I can't. Scratch that- I won't. You want to hear me? I'm talking. What I'm saying is important. So turn off the t.v you're blasting- those people are characters frozen in time. You don't love them more than your own daughter, now do you? Their problem can be put on pause, rewound, and- get this- isn't even real. So can't you put it on pause for a minute so you can hear what I have to say? My life doesn't have a pause button. I'm asking you for help, you've got one chance, if you don't take it, don't chastise me for my mistakes.
Is that even the problem, though? Is it then? Is it because I'm a little far away, the t.v's a little loud, the washer's a bit too overpowering?
No.

refuse refuse refuse

No one really thinks about it. It seems impossible, right? That something so tragically sweet and impossibly meaningful and astonishingly beautiful could ever be quite the opposite. That something that has survived the ages as something to revere, as something that was sacred for two to say would be such a death sentence. The words every girl wants to hear to know she's accepted, the words every boy (according to media) fears.
I love you.
Whatever it means to you could be something foreign to me, and you may find it weird when I tell you that for me I love you is nothing but trouble, because it means that whatever comes next can't be good. Protecting myself is my biggest priority because I really should be better at it, but I'm not. So I protect myself in every way I can, and if that's the only way I can, then so be it. But it means that my heart's going to be broken because I'm not naive, I know everything has an end and that I can be perfect for someone one minute then everything they never wanted the next, because that's who I am. I'm some sort of insanity, and a whirlwind, and the world around me can't sit still because that's just how I'm built.
Every compliment is something I can't live up to, so it's not what they think it is. Calling me beautiful doesn't make me feel as good now, because I'm a mess. And even if I hide it, I'm breaking down so calling me perfect is an insult. I put up that face, with the smile and the happy blue eyes, because it's better to be who I want to be and be happy for the moment I get than to have to suffer the constant inquiries about whether or not I'm okay. I'm fine if you ask, but not if you don't.
And I will lie to your face because I don't want to deal with it.
I thought it was fine, that I was good enough but I know I'm not. So if you could kindly step back and not get too involved? I'm not here for forever; I'm barely here at all. I don't mean to hurt you, but I'm not anything you say I am and I guess that that's my fault. You think so highly of me? Well look at me now, shattered on the ground and so far from getting up. Step back, I'll pick up the pieces. Run back to somewhere where you don't have to watch your step for the shards of my life that I miss.
Because I'm not perfect, and I know that, and I'm going to miss something. And that something will be something important, and I'll fall apart again. A vicious, never ending cycle, a cyclone, it'll pull you under like a tidal wave and I refuse. I refuse, I refuse, I refuse.
But he bought me roses....