A Confession

I had told you 

that I had merely 

forgotten what it was like 

to not be the listener, 

but that's not 

the full truth:

There are scars of

the past 

engraved on me, 

of drifting

fighting

losing,

and even though you've said 

that you find 

a beauty in the scars on my skin 

because of the stories they tell, 

the story and marks

inside me are too ugly 

to show. 

I have carved myself roles

for everyone around me 

as the listener

and the affectionate.

For the longest time 

I had convinced myself 

that these roles

were for them, 

to keep them happy, 

to lessen their burden

at the cost of 

my own troubles and self.

But now

I have realized that every time I was 

listening I was merely 

murmuring 

ambiguous replies to indicate 

I hear and understand 

so as to avoid saying 

anything that could be 

jeopardizing; 

when I was patting or

hugging or 

kissing I have

always been

trying to cling on,

secretly checking for reassurance 

in reciprocation. 

I've been hiding 

behind my roles, 

not selflessly for them 

but selfishly for the coward 

that is me, 

for the me that is terrified 

of that raw deja vu 

of losing the people dearest to me. 

And I'm sorry 

I haven't said this in person,

I know you would listen

but habit and fear 

has forced me 

to forget what it's like to 

not be the listener, 

and so I can only confess 

behind juxtaposed prose 

and vagueness.