But I expected a slower pace.
So that when the day came,
I would have something to save face.
I can't run from that of which I knew would catch up to me.
And I can't run from my insecurities,
especially with the way they:
Taunt, scare, and hurt me.
I'm so involved with making sure I do my best to be a better me,
and to be a better person so that those of you can stay happy.
But I'm losing track to which of you need it most,
because I'm beginning to see wasted time invested on the shores of this coast.
But the better me can't seem to get back on her feet,
the better me is stuck in shallow water and so longing for the deep reassurance waters of a full,
And I knew it wouldn't happen.
I've got myself so wrapped up in lies and hate and deceit and pity.
Not what I want to hear, because I want to walk this city with a head held high,
on shoulders with no room to cry.
And to shout out that my ignorance could be key, because if I didn't know what was going on maybe I would feel better.
And the truth of the matter is that,
my legs can't hold up my weakening knees,
and my spine breaks a little more each time I realize that the heart beating within my ribcage is merely a fleeting patter that has led me astray far too many times.
I'll circle back and forth, and retrace steps that I've seen at least a hundred times before,
only to realize that I'm the only set of footprints for a thousand miles.
Because who would honestly want to tread in these shoes?
I've got bridges in the back of my eyelids that break every time I realize who I am.
And I've got the proof that I'll only be as good as I see me,
I don't see any good.
Or maybe I'm just awfully blind.
Maybe if I could rub the dirt out of my eyes I could see something, but I've got too much mud lodged in my sockets.
And I'm beginning to think that I'm only breathing because of the life you try to restore self,
but one day these plastic bags for lungs are going to give out and your methods of resuscitation aren't going to work.
I'm an ugly duckling trying to find home, but I'm lost and afraid and no one's looking for a lowly creature such as myself.
And I'm sorry, Dear Me, That I'm caving in,
and after every motion that loosens this skin off of these achy bones that will crumble any minute.
I've got nothing to offer because I have no worth.
I'm tossed to a rocky shore amongst the bits and pieces of glass and sand in the crevasses of woe.
But maybe if I let myself toss and turn here, in the absence of me, and the presence of time,
I could be smoothed and polished.
And I'm trying too hard to achieve something I don't deserve, and I'm approaching the end of a setting sun that's only cut me deeper than any sword could.
I'm ever-changing and ever-doubting the exterior being, with sloppy interior motives.
I'm not an outstanding gem nor a priceless antique.
I am a hermit crab stuck in a forest of seaweed and currents that will cease to reveal the existence of me.
I'm worthless because I've got nothing to offer.
And all I can ever say is that I love you for trying.