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Literature Text
raw, bleeding heart
that’s how you like to describe yourself.
or maybe it should be:
open, gaping wound
you like to think you’re emotional;
sensitive (and you are, that);
good-natured (hah);
idealistic (perhaps in the past).
let’s unpack that, shall we?
sometimes you’re not quite sure
what’s real and what’s not
your entire existence, it just –
it feels like a fantasy
an illusion
a delusion
like everything else is too much
so overwhelmingly real
and you, you aren’t.
in fact, you live your life in words
(but not the good kind)
you surround yourself with media
(you are unflinchingly honest about this)
books, movies, musicals:
you wish your life was one.
you think you’re authentic
but how can that be, if
you’re just following a script?
if you ever only expect others
to do the very same?
you want to have perfect things
you want others to be perfect
you want to be perfect.
and i, i just wish you’d get it in your head:
that’s never going to happen.
you love the idea of things
you say you’re in love with love
but you’ve never even been in love
you’re like that privileged white girl
who says she’s experienced true suffering
(but what is that, if not a mere shade of truth?)
you want to love too deeply, fiercely
but you want somebody nice
you want to change the world
but you want to be comfortably happy
you’re too intense, sometimes
but people who can catch up with you, well
they’re too often out of your league
but the thing is,
the problem isn’t him
or her
it was never him, or her, or them
it was always you
it has always been you
it will always be you
(but, whatever.
doesn’t matter)
maybe you thought you liked him;
or, to be accurate – you liked the idea of him
you liked the idea of him and you and us
because isn’t that what you always do?
sometimes you’re glad that
no matter how much you feel
(or pretend to feel)
no matter how much you think
(or try to think)
there are some little things you tuck away
like the fact that if you say you’re fine,
you probably aren’t
or that when you think you’re alone
smiling is a sign of unrestrained sadness
or that if you ask after something more than once
it means it’s been dwelling on your mind
and that means that it’s interesting
because being you also means passion
and that means never giving up on things that interest you
or that those little things
you ever so rarely tell to one person
and you thought just maybe
maybe this time it could be him-
anyway, anyway.
it’s all symptomatic of a bigger problem:
you. you, and this fear
“what is it? pray tell”
well, nobody knows better than you
you’re afraid of being fake
you say this, you say that
but to tell the truth
your life is so austenian
(isn’t that ironic?)
you love love
you exult the values of friendship whilst
bemoaning the commonality of romance
yet you, you.
you look for somebody
not to l o v e
just to ———— like.
whatever for?
for all you say
and all you claim
you’re a lying hypocrite
and, in the end
you’re just human
and…
well, anyway.
you just don’t want to be (not after everything)
stuck (despite trying your best)
involuntarily, (it still wasn't good enough)
by yourself (again)
because, face it:
you’re scared that
despite everything you’ve said,
friendship isn’t enough to sustain you
so that’s that.
you don’t want to be alone.
you don’t want to lie.
you don’t want to be loveless.
maybe it’s the human condition
but the more i live life
and the more i observe others
the more i think:
“no, it’s just a ‘you’ condition”
that’s how you like to describe yourself.
or maybe it should be:
open, gaping wound
you like to think you’re emotional;
sensitive (and you are, that);
good-natured (hah);
idealistic (perhaps in the past).
let’s unpack that, shall we?
sometimes you’re not quite sure
what’s real and what’s not
your entire existence, it just –
it feels like a fantasy
an illusion
a delusion
like everything else is too much
so overwhelmingly real
and you, you aren’t.
in fact, you live your life in words
(but not the good kind)
you surround yourself with media
(you are unflinchingly honest about this)
books, movies, musicals:
you wish your life was one.
you think you’re authentic
but how can that be, if
you’re just following a script?
if you ever only expect others
to do the very same?
you want to have perfect things
you want others to be perfect
you want to be perfect.
and i, i just wish you’d get it in your head:
that’s never going to happen.
you love the idea of things
you say you’re in love with love
but you’ve never even been in love
you’re like that privileged white girl
who says she’s experienced true suffering
(but what is that, if not a mere shade of truth?)
you want to love too deeply, fiercely
but you want somebody nice
you want to change the world
but you want to be comfortably happy
you’re too intense, sometimes
but people who can catch up with you, well
they’re too often out of your league
but the thing is,
the problem isn’t him
or her
it was never him, or her, or them
it was always you
it has always been you
it will always be you
(but, whatever.
doesn’t matter)
maybe you thought you liked him;
or, to be accurate – you liked the idea of him
you liked the idea of him and you and us
because isn’t that what you always do?
sometimes you’re glad that
no matter how much you feel
(or pretend to feel)
no matter how much you think
(or try to think)
there are some little things you tuck away
like the fact that if you say you’re fine,
you probably aren’t
or that when you think you’re alone
smiling is a sign of unrestrained sadness
or that if you ask after something more than once
it means it’s been dwelling on your mind
and that means that it’s interesting
because being you also means passion
and that means never giving up on things that interest you
or that those little things
you ever so rarely tell to one person
and you thought just maybe
maybe this time it could be him-
anyway, anyway.
it’s all symptomatic of a bigger problem:
you. you, and this fear
“what is it? pray tell”
well, nobody knows better than you
you’re afraid of being fake
you say this, you say that
but to tell the truth
your life is so austenian
(isn’t that ironic?)
you love love
you exult the values of friendship whilst
bemoaning the commonality of romance
yet you, you.
you look for somebody
not to l o v e
just to ———— like.
whatever for?
for all you say
and all you claim
you’re a lying hypocrite
and, in the end
you’re just human
and…
well, anyway.
you just don’t want to be (not after everything)
stuck (despite trying your best)
involuntarily, (it still wasn't good enough)
by yourself (again)
because, face it:
you’re scared that
despite everything you’ve said,
friendship isn’t enough to sustain you
so that’s that.
you don’t want to be alone.
you don’t want to lie.
you don’t want to be loveless.
maybe it’s the human condition
but the more i live life
and the more i observe others
the more i think:
“no, it’s just a ‘you’ condition”
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