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I hold people at arm length because I'm afraid of them seeing the cracks in my skin I fear them seeing the blood dripping from the open scars I clawed from so long ago I fear them seeing the heart still beating despite being broken and they'd think to themselves —I am not perfect and I cannot be loved
I hold people at arm length because I can't have them seeing everything wrong with me; everything I have tried so hard to hide over the years of toil They'd probably think —I am not meant to be loved
Surely there exists a fault in my system —how else have I felt this defeated and empty— This is why I cannot look up to the heavens in wonder and why I cannot enjoy my life in this fragile soil
So, I hold people at arm length because I'm afraid of them seeing the storm brewing beneath my skin and the dead sparkle in my eyes —if they did, they'd think of me as pathetic and not worthy of anything good —if they see I'm not perfect that I'm not who they told me to be— I won't be loved
