I lay here, on this cold couch,
In a room sadistically trying to be cozy,
Staring blankly into a retrospective looking glass.

I don’t know why I am the way I am.

I dose the meds and I listen to their textbook questions,
I search introspectively for any clues.
But, it seems the closer I get,
The farther away I feel.

So, how can I expect you to feel welcome
In a heart that only knows,
The familiarity of the unknown.
Where words get drawn back from my lips,
Swallowed up by a blackhole of insecurities.   

But, this heart wants so badly to love
And its words are relentless,
Strong in all the ways that I am not.

They push in a rage to materialize,
Forcing their way out through my pen.
Thoughts and emotions mutedly unleashed into
Thousands of notes and annotations,
Some incoherent, some almost too perfectly clear.
But they are entirely me,
Naked and raw and vulnerable and exposed
All here waiting, for you.

Pull my book from the shelf,
Thumb through its velvet pages,
Fold the corners of me that pique your interest
So that we may explore them together.
And maybe, in time, I will learn
Why I am who I am and finally be able to cry out,

My words of love to you.