Hope and caution.

“If only you knew how terrified I am.” – Unknown

I’m the pieces of a puzzle no one wants to solve. Not even me. Why would I when it will only make an abstract image that makes no sense? Why would I when I’ve been told time and time again by my own heart that I am not worth it, that I am not good enough?

Fear resides in the darkest corners of our minds. They’re the monsters I fight. The demons I try to contain. They’re my invasions. I know I’m not perfect, and I know no one is, but I’m just a tad bit more imperfect than you, and that just haunts me.

I don’t know what makes me imperfect, but something does and I’m pretty sure people get annoyed when I talk too much about it. Every time I say something, I’m afraid that soemthing will go wrong. Every word of mine is wrapped in hope and caution.

I’m afraid.

I’ve always been. And so when I’m asked about my story, I just smile like it’s no big deal and ask them to repeat theirs for the thousandth time, and I find joy in the subtle changes in the story that they make to make it more memorable and perfect. Every time they speak about scars, I close my eyes and feel the skin under my sleeves tingling with sensations of blood, fear and pain. I smile and talk about how beautiful they look in their crop tops and funky hats. Every time I burst with excitement and say something stupid, I stay quiet and regret it for the rest of the day. Everytime I have a story to tell, or a new hobby to show, or just want someone, I just listen to music and find my solace in the pretty words and crazy beats.

Every time I am at a party, I dance a little softly and eat not at all, because I want to be invited the next time too. Every time they crack a joke that I don’t understand, I laugh anyway because I’m sure I’ll understand the next one. Whenever someone shares their food, I ask twice and then confirm one last time before having the smallest piece I can find, and saying Thank you. I want to have more, but I wait for them to offer.

Damn this fear

I dont have a best friend. Unless you consider 234 pages of a white notebook that I carry with me everywhere a friend. I don’t write diaries because I don’t understand the idea behind it. But I do write poetry which reflects my life as a beautiful world and me as a happy being. But sometimes, it’s sad and just not good enough. Quite like me.

They call it Atelophobia.


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13 Comments

      1. It can be a relief, to know one is not alone, that others feel just as vulnerable. The solution is known, its the mutual voicing of the fear, the vulnerability, the insecurity to one another. But it involves a little battle with fear and pride first too, because we humans like to appear invincible and strong to each other. I might be rambling…

  1. Perhaps you’re imperfect, as we all are in our own individual ways. But you sure can write. You write so beautifully I can’t help but look at my own writing and feel like I’m hardly writing at all. What a gift!

  2. Another great piece! You come up with some wonderful lines:
    “Every time they speak about scars, I close my eyes and feel the skin under my sleeves tingling with sensations of blood and pain”.
    When I read that I knew exactly what you meant. Sx :)

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