A dose of reality

Honestly, 

I'm terrified.

You scare me.

You scare the hell out of me.

You read my words and they mean something to you.

THEY'RE JUST WORDS

I want to scream.

I weave my words like a spider weaves a web.

I'm the spider, you're the fly, and my poetry is the web.

You're caught.

What if I told you I lied?

Solstice Everston was right.

Art is professional lying,

And I lied to you.

I lied

I lied

I lied

I lied

I lied.

I don't know why,

But this blog is an escape from reality.

I've never been in love.

I've never had a boyfriend.

I've never even been kissed.

I die a little bit inside every time someone acts surprised at that.

You all believed me, though.

Why wouldn't you?

My words were so pretty

And you related so much to them.

I know heartbreak.

I know what it's like to look in the mirror only to find a knife in your back.

I know that because of some crap friendships.

I don't know what it's like to have a boy break my heart.

The closest I've been to a relationship was a week long and as awkward as an accidental butt grab.

It was terminated when he and my friend made out while I was out of town.

That was what "For the we that was" was based off of.

I turned my life into a Hollywood screenplay, 

but based off of a true story is never really the true story.

I turned my emotions into a story,

Several times,

And you believed them. 

You believed every. Single. Word.

If I talked about love, assume it's a lie.

I'm done, though.

I don't know love.

I'm not even sure love exists.

Disregard me.

Stop reading what I say.

This is for me,

And I have to write what I know.

I'll tell you what I know about love:

I've never been in love, but I love her. I have to. She's my best friend. If I don't care, then what she tells herself is true. I woke up sobbing in the middle of the night because I had a dream she killed herself. I have to answer the phone, because if she's alone she'll come to school with two more parallel lines on her arm. She breaks me every time she cries because she ignores what I say. I never like them. I've never liked one of them, and I tell her that, but she just sees someone to save. I keep my mouth shut while she cries a couple months later because no one ever wants to hear "I told you so," but that's all I have to say. I'm terrified that she knows that.

This blog has to be my reality now,

Because creativity is real.

I need to be real.

But, Nelson,

I'm scared.

You asked me to tell you about myself.

I'm scared because I'm not sure who that is anymore.

You asked me to prove I'm not a robot.

I'm scared because I don't think I can.

You asked me to write about my childhood. 

I'm scared because I don't remember much of it.

You asked me to write about love.

I'm scared because I'm not even sure what that is.

You asked me to be different.

I'm scared that I never will be.

You asked me to write about the concrete.

I'm scared because even bricks can be broken.

Nelson, you asked me to write about my fears.

I'm scared because I can't count them and they feed off of my fear and they're getting bigger and bigger and bigger like rolling a snowball down a mountain and my fear becomes an avalanche and I'm suffocating underneath it all.

I'm scared you hate me.

I'm scared of you not reading my blog.

I'm scared of my words becoming meaningless

Because I'm the girl who cried love.

You deserve to know the truth more than I deserve to live an idealized version of myself, though.

Now I just have to be real.

Real is all I can be.

Real is what I can't be.

I'm terrified that you know that.

I'm terrified that you don't.

I'm terrified that you don't understand.

I'm terrified that you do.

I'm afraid.

I'm afraid.

I'm so, so afraid.

--Alis