I know these bedsheets can’t hide my canyons,
Like I know that the flatlines of this silence
Will never cover the peaks of all this static.
Like I know you’ll never hear the high pitch hum
That robs me of all the potential of peaceful quiet.
I know that you’ll never understand why I use candles
To carve your name across the length of my arms.
Or why I stare at all these photographs
With stars falling from my eyes.
Or why I push so far away from your outstretched welcome sign
Maybe I’m afraid of getting what I’ve always wanted.
Maybe I’m afraid of taking what I’ve always needed.
Maybe I’m afraid that the moment I find comfort,
You’ll leave me.
Or lead me into that downward spiral
Where my heart is a poorly played sport.
I wonder if you know that I still hide under my blankets;
I’m still terrified of the dark.
I believe that there are monster under my bed,
Mostly afraid of becoming like me.
Mostly I wonder if maybe I should join them,
But I’m not sure I can fit in a closet full of skeletons.
On most days I stare into the mirror and pray
That people won’t see my breaking.
That I can keep up the play at keeping it all together.
And I forget to understand
That bedsheets will never hide these canyons.