fairy lights and books surround me
a comforting darkness
a sanctuary for my thoughts,
awful singing and sketches
clothes on the floor
music in the background
words on pages
trying to strew them together
so they’ll make the slightest bit of sense
the longer I look
the more I hate what I’ve done
failed drawings and unfinished stories
so much to say
but no way to explain
the need to let everything out is overwhelming
no one is fully trusted
to say what I need takes time
letting a little bit out at a time
but to expose myself to so much vulnerability
it’s an accident waiting to happen
my stories will go from person to person
slowly being changed
until people don’t see me as who I really am
why take a risk when you can stay safe keeping everything in
sure it drives you crazy
but that’s what you get for not being perfect
