Act Like An Angel

I want to tell him that he doesn’t have a bad bone in his body,

but I don’t think he’d listen.

I want to tell my friends that no one will ever love me,

but I don’t want them to take it offensively.

I call my Mom for the thousandth time to cry

about the same old thing,

but told everyone else that I’ve been good,

not much going on with me,

because I don’t know how to not choke,

I don’t know how to confess,

rip open, and expose the bilious pink of my chest,

that sometimes the piles of miscellaneous items that I nurse try to sink me.

Headfirst, I digress,

act like an angel, and pretend everything’s okay,

put on mute the marching band in my mind that is Hell, screaming.

I break down in the kitchen,

get on a plane, ditch town, and run away.

I stretch myself thin,

then act shocked that it hurts so bad

when I finally snap.

I can’t help but feel like I keep fucking up.

I think I know who I am,

then look foreign in the mirror.

I think I learn from the past,

then take three steps backwards.

None of it makes any sense,

embarrassed by my own self because I’m too intense,

can’t ever leave well enough alone,

my heart breaking over spilt milk,

betting on wishing wells,

loving most the people who push me away,

not letting go of them when they don’t want to stay,

rewatching clip after clip

of my mistakes, balancing at the slope of a cliff,

ready to vault, ready to soar,

not wanting to be like this anymore,

throw in the towel, stop the drums,

but when it comes to the big push,

I bite my tongue.

I play the role that I’m assigned,

reaching for my innermost strength at all times.

I don’t know if I want to cuss him out,

or kiss him on his pretty mouth.

I think there’s truth in both,

but then I feel guilty for being a dick, so I take the high road,

and keep my immature behavior a secret.

I move with grace and intention

even when I’m heated, even when I deserve to be,

because it’s what the good girl will always do,

and if I’m already divulging some parts of my truth,

then I might as well also admit

that I hate being her, because she never fucking wins.

Often, I feel so underestimated, not appreciated,

easy to get over, skipped like breakfast,

but I won’t defend myself with my full chest,

because once again, I digress,

play nice, and try to move on with my life.

I suffer in my silence and my composure,

because I’d rather put that on myself

than put pain on anyone else.

So I’ll read the books, stare at films,

write until the ink bleeds with me,

clean my apartment until it smells like bleach,

stand tall in the quicksand of my decisions,

move forward without being derisive,

and trust that I’ll get what I want in the end.