I should not be left to my own devices.
All alone, midnight till dawn. I am most honest with myself. But truth is scarier than lies could ever be. I fear my own reflection when I am with no one around to please. Me, stripped off of all my clever facade, wearing back the ugliness I folded and hid carefully somewhere in the farthest corner of my head.
They come with prices and vices.
My pen, my paper, and my silver tongue are my weapons. But weapons are never taking sides. They’re unfair to their victims, but fair in their unfairness. They’re lethal to anyone, even to me. I fear touching them when I’m alone— I might kill. I might write all the truth, more than I am ever brave enough to face. I couldn’t handle this surge to use them on me. To pour all the things I have run so far from dealing with. I do not want to wield my weapons against me. I can’t. I can’t. But my hands are reaching for them in every single moment of solitude. So I keep writing manuscripts of all the things I couldn’t admit out loud.
Did you hear my covert narcissism?
I despise compliments on and on, wary of the ulterior motives. Then I grow less and less familiar with myself, never knowing which judgment to believe. Am I really good or are you throwing pity at me? Are you telling me this to make me feel better? Oh, never mind. I’ll please you anyway. I’ll keep going out of my way for a little bit of approval.
I disguised as altruism.
I do not know if I am ever truly kind. Do I give gifts to see happiness or do I want to be remembered for charity? I am not prepared for the truth. They say, don’t be too hard on yourself. But the standards have long been blurry. I do not know if I’m being inhumane or if I’m just rightfully not doing good enough. I gave out so much of my heart that I became heartless to myself. But, still, I couldn’t find the answer to one simple question. Am I selfish, or am I selfless?
