Who I Am

When I am helpless and have nowhere to go, I turn to my writing to give me some peace.
When I am in doubt, I write.

These walls of my  room are damp with all the tears I have cried for you.
My breath comes in laboured, staccato bursts from my lungs.
I am more alive in this moment of extreme grief than I am when the world sees me.
There is no mask, there is no wall.

Our conversations are a mirror.
You help me turn into myself and see myself for who I am.
I don't like what I see at all.
You make me feel naked with all my clothes on.
I detest the vulnerability.
I detest the devotion that flares up, unchecked when I see you.

No, you are not on a pedestal.
Your flaws, short comings and mistakes all make you, you.
I love you the more for it.
Your skin glows under the night light in your room.
Everything is perfect and peaceful.
Except me.
I am a wreck.
Not because you don't love me, though that is also an important part of my grief.
But because I realise I don't deserve you.
How can I give you what you give me?

I am nothing but my good intentions, stitched hastily by my impulsive deeds.
Is this a question about self-esteem? I don't know.
But I feel after everything that has happened to you,
You need a haven, a place of calm, a balm.

I am a whirlpool of emotions that causes destruction when let loose.
Which is why I am always guarded, always unreal
I know how dangerous it is for someone to love me.
I have seen what has happened to the men who have truly loved me.
They never got over me.

I wouldn't wish that on anybody.