Sometimes I smile out of habit.
I don’t notice when it’s dishonest,
Because I’m so used to convincing myself it’s true.
You can fake it so much that it turns into your reality,
Even when you are pretending.
But sometimes pretending seems more familiar to me than reality.
I continue repeating and hearing the sound over and over again—
Feeling the stretch across my skin—
Feeling the void of emotion—
“Please forgive me.”
My thoughts cry for forgiveness from this notion
That I will never be good enough to
Measure up and be the version of perfect
I want to see—
Or feel in my body.
Maybe perfection would give me peace,
Or maybe it would destroy me completely.
A Word to the Wise
Your words are venom–
The kind of venom that gets beneath the skin and spreads like a bug bite.
A bee sting.
The kind of feeling you get from someone repeatedly pricking every inch of your skin with a fine needle–
You’re bearable, but miserable.
Your skin is corroding beneath the negativity lining subtle words,
Bringing death closer than it was before,
And deepening the creases you thought were signs of age–
But I realized you words were laced with experience.
Times when you had to fight beneath your skin while you listened
To adults tell you how to live and how to be.
I realized you didn’t have much of a chance to be yourself,
Because you had responsibilities and weights that brought you to your knees.
Your words aren’t venom,
They are burning because you didn’t allow yourself to cry
Over the loss.