Sunday, June 8, 2014

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
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 
ambiguous replies to indicate 
I hear and understand 
so as to avoid saying 
anything that could be 
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.

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