Disclaimers

I suppose when I become too comfortable

is when my imperfections become magnified.

I hold much more loosely the strings of my own puppet self and

my natural oddness begins to show.

This quite unfortunately happens each and every time I finally put together any good thing.

I try to give disclaimers,

waving them like banners over my head,

and still, people come!

Until they see for themselves what a mess I am, and leave.

I only hope they’ll love me

even for my ugly,

but I think I’m not taken seriously

when I present my warnings.

I’m always left in the dust by “normalcy”

once any of my “crazy” shows up.

The unfortunate thing

(or fortunate, you choose) is that

I expect good things to be ruined and leave.

Imperfections are often romanticized

until they are mine.

No one can handle my darkness.

In the end, and

quite frankly, in conclusion,

I cannot be loved.

Indeed, I am afraid of it—

being loved—

as it never stays with me.

It supplies a few butterflies, then strips me and leaves me reaching like a fool.

I have a growing sanctuary for these delicate things

with beautiful wings

inside of my heart,

and this make me mourn.

They all—the number of them, the growing mass of them—make me mourn.

Not even other darkness loves my darkness,

and I have not even a star to hang

in my empty night sky.

My tears fall eternally

through the vast void

with nothing to catch them.

Because of the way one leaves,

once knowing me,

I’ve begun to introduce myself as

“crazy.”

Yet, no one believes me until they see it;

they say it’s adorable until they’re the one walking away.

And I can’t blame them,

they didn’t ask for any of this.

I only wish they’d understand and accept at the first that I know more of myself and my history with human things than they,

and trying to prove to both of us that I am not indeed abnormal

just shows how blind they really are,

and just how willing they are to stick on a blindfold

of their own suppositions and hold it there to their face.

The human will is such a stubborn and delicate thing.

And I suppose I am its titanium.

Thus,

I’ve taken it upon myself to no longer listen to their ignorant begging for a connection that will not fulfill their dreams at all–not even in the least.

–A poem taken from The Universe Inside Her II: a book of unsorted poetic letters (in progress).