The Things I Said While You Were Sleeping

I am not a good person.

If white lies were good deeds, I’d be called a saint. I substitute nihilism for wit and self-deprecation for charm. I’m too scared to believe in God.

You could do better.

I’m so pretentious. I equate big words with big feelings, and I overuse the semicolon. I don’t know how to tie my shoes properly. I’m afraid of grasshoppers. I get anxious when things stay the same for too long, and change frightens me. I’m haunted by the people I’ve ghosted. I’m daunted by my own heartbeat. Everything I do looks like a cry for help.

Why are you even here?

You are so beautiful. I’ll never deserve you.

I’m the shade to your sunshine.

You rest comfortably beneath me,

but I’m stunting your growth.

I’m holding you back.

I’m obscuring your view of the sky.

Please be patient with me.

I’m a wagon with square wheels.

You bring so much light to the world around you, the sun might be your mirror.

I’m a squalid, pathetic little hermit,

holed up within the confines of his own head.

You’re everything Julie Andrews sings about.

Someday⁠,

if your open eyes don’t halt my heart⁠,

I promise I’ll tell you everything.