Confession
I learned what I fear today:
Intimacy. I can’t seem to face
my raw emotions bluntly; in fact
I despise them for being unpoetic
Why be vulgar and direct
when I can hide behind my
metaphors, my harbor; my fantasies, my
buffer—between reality and
my brain cells too proud to be seen
scattered, sprinkled all over—
well, nothing
Even this moment I struggle to simply
write: I’m messy. I’m hurt.
I’m lone and gloomy and primitive and violent.
I can’t speak of my love and hatred in
raw honesty, no—I must be filtered
so when I scramble myself undone on paper
I no longer belong to
me. I’ll be
safe, from me; an
outsider, from me.
Critics say a raw poem
whispers secrets like readers are old friends
But I have long forgotten,
how a girl usually lets her voice confess
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