Paper-thin

I don’t know how to say this, so maybe I won’t.

Maybe I'll write it, because listening isn't a societal trend,

and I take comfort in confessing, alone, sometimes.

I imagine a man, sitting down with me, listening,

reading over my shoulder, perhaps,

a therapist, if I’m honest.

I don’t talk much about my inner workings you see,

I shy away from the harsher aspects of my psyche,

the weird ones, the undesirables,

the ones I have to reign in like rearing, spooked horses.

I want to seem pristine, intelligent and put together on the outside.

Always.

I take comfort in it.

To be the reliable one, the responsible,

I am the eldest daughter, after all,

but I’m just as messy as anyone else could be, even more so, methinks,

I’m a skilled chameleon of course, finding colours and patterns to hide in.

I take comfort in fooling myself, too,

the kind of fooling that makes things seem ‘normal.'

My normal is a disguise though, used to cover malaise, truly.

If I could, I’d like to separate my soul from my body one day,

animatedly so, to watch a sunrise with myself,

have a heart-to-heart,

because I’m sure the eyes that see this life,

the ones no one else seems to witness, nor understand,

are immured to this body, and broken, maybe.

I mean, these limbs, this mind, grew inside someone else, no?

They’re not really mine then, they’re borrowed.

I guess that’s a bit passionate

—wanting to get away from this vessel so I can understand,

myself, or the world mayhap, with fresh, released perception.

It’s incongruent, though, since I should understand me,

but some books are written in braille,

and I gloved my fingertips long ago.

I spread myself thin, too, sometimes,

wanting to function and anticipate how others feel.

But I can't say many do that for me,

at least, I don’t think so.

If only they knew how it pains to know I’ve over-spoken, overshared,

to know I’ve filled a cup unasked for and the brim overflowed, unwelcome.

It’s a cut to my facade, a paper-thin sheet of a spectre, really,

and I have to depart, flee the scene, a bandit clutching pieces of pride,

willing to visit somewhere safe and dark, a cave of sorts,

to recharge, and relish in the abyss of zero-expectations,

because I take comfort in being alone,

so I don’t have to worry about being misunderstood,

I don't have to hold the weight anymore,

I can let the mask fall.