You say that it's not always about me
as if this fear of not being enough
of ruining every good thing in my life
is a habit I intentionally hold on to
as if it makes me feel normal, feels like home,
but maybe it does.
When you’re forced to live somewhere long enough, you learn to call it home.
I ask, "do you still care?"
The words flow out of my mouth as easily as they did before.
All my life, I have been reassured by the people that come and go insistently like midnight thunderstorms
that I am never enough.
I have been relentlessly reminded by the automated voice machine in my mind:
“one new message from Anxiety."
In my own voice, she whispers into the phone, "they will never love you."
As hard as I try, the answering machine won't break.
I swing as hard as I can with the bat of my love and your love and their love, but it never breaks.
Instead, it shatters me until I can no longer bear to pick up the scattered shards and talk to the people I love.
I am a dare that everyone wants to hear, but no one wants to carry out.
So when you tell me
over and over and over again
like the echoes I hear of the guilt in my mind
that this distance that feels like worlds are between us is not about me,
that leaving is not about me,
how can you expect me to believe you?
You say that it's not my fault that I don't know how to walk on my own,
but that you cannot be the hand to guide me.
You say you have to let go and move forward
to those who are already steadily walking a straight line.
You say to give you a call when I know how to jog,
even though you said that you'd be here forever.
I guess people have different definitions of forever.
I will forever doubt you.
It is always about me.
Endings are always because of me.
The next time I meet someone I even think could replace the comfort of your love,
I will simply ask,
“truth or dare?”