I have a problem.
I wish that I could tell you about it,
But I have the suspicion you already know,
And that would lose the effect of confession.
But fuck it.
I don’t know what part of me is broken.
It happened before you,
But it’s in there somewhere,
And finding it is a fruitless obsession.
I want to be my best self for you.
I want you to look at me and feel strength.
I want you to look at me and be proud.
But my greatest accomplishment thus far is
Not even arriving home.
But there’s no bragging about surviving.
It’s been the norm for so long for so many.
I’m no different than the rest
In front of a mirror.
Yet, somehow, the reflection of you
Is much clearer.
Still, I feel like a fraud–
Please, for that truth don’t applaud.
It’s only the proof that I’m human and flawed.
And why do I feel like I shouldn’t be?
I’m only human, after all,
And we could forgive that couldn’t we?