First Thing I Ever Was, Was a Liar

I’m another troubled poet

I’m the one that’s wrong.

I’m feeling a mix of emotions about that right now.

I kind of like my rough edges and flat voice.

I kind of miss that me when I’m happy.

Is that why I keep dragging myself into pain?

Because it feels so wrong just to be innocent like I was

I can’t do that anymore

Not after everything I’ve just seen over the past year

I can’t pretend to live in a world where Brooklyn: home alone, fetal position on her bed, window cracked, slight breeze, last light of the evening, shaking, shaking, shaking with the pain of her existence doesn’t exist.

I can’t pretend like that version of multifaceted me doesn’t exist.

Because that girl is there. I didn’t know she existed until I conjured her in a lie but I’ve got to admit I love wearing her mask.

Would it be wrong to say that that’s the version closest to me.

Dark, cynical, raw

And so so wrong in my mind and in this brick wall I’ve constructed in my corner of the world.

So wrong

I’m so so awful

And it feels so good sometimes that I’m willing to spend all of my happiness on something I know is a lie