House guest

I see the doubt. I’m staring right at it. I’ve let it into my home because it came knocking in the middle of the night and I was too tired to turn it away. And now it’s eating my food, stealing my clothes, taking up space for the other guests of my life I want to let in instead; it’s using my toothbrush without asking, without telling me. The bristles are wet before I put it in my mouth.

And the sick thing is, is I don’t want it to leave. I can’t ask it to leave because some warped part of me is giving it shelter and I want to. I want to remind myself that I’m not enough. To keep me in line.

The noodle part of my mind tells me that it’s for my protection. You open yourself up, you put all that you love on your outsides, you put it into the world and it will throw you up like rotten meat. You’ll be worse off after that than you are now.

But the part that’s really me me me is meekly trying to say: that’s not true at all.


That’s not true at all.



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