Honesty

Funny thing this honesty?

Almost as if
once you opened the flood gates words come pouring
out

But, played the game for so
long

That perhaps this is just another in a long line
of tricks

That's how the cynic in me sees
it?

Not sure if we trust ourselves yet, let alone
each other

The world sees you and the world sees
me

According to that which we have let them
see

Who knows if how we see each other is truer than
the last

Because, for me, not sure yet which one is
the real me

For a long time told myself that while
they did not know it,

I did, and that was all that
mattered, but as I say - perhaps that was just another
lie

In writing this, all I am doing is cryptically
sending you a message that says, I know we have both been here before,
not so na?ve to think there is something new here. Or someone new who
is going to save me, to open me up, I am not even suggesting that that
is what I really want. Indeed who knows what they want. I have things
now I never knew I wanted and perhaps those things are better than
anything I imagined in my dreams. Remember dreams are always something
you wake up from. I want someone to know there is more to me than meets
the eye, but everyone craves that, to be believed to be deeper than
their surface selves, for an angel to touch their soul. But I saw my
angel face to face and his scars were deeper than anyone should ever
have to touch and how can someone heal your pain when theirs is rawer
than a broken heart. Though, its almost as if it would be better for
someone to know your soul and hate it than never to have told anyone
the truth and yet to expose that vulnerability may leave us struggling
for air. And what would you have to do in return for having really been
heard?

I think you tell me
what you think I want to hear or need to hear, or something you need
someone to hear, something that binds us together and for me well?
well, I am the same? Not that what we say is lies or is not heart felt,
and certainly suddenly you hold a part of me by knowing things I never
told a living heart and that somehow I told you. Not just because you
asked, but almost because you sounded like you needed to know. And
maybe, maybe just maybe, because I thought that at some point one
of us would just say stop, enough, I can't hear the insides of you
anymore. Because my insides, and perhaps yours too, are so hollow and
so tired that one person rattles about in there and hears their own
haunting voices louder than before.

We tell ourselves
that this was never how it was supposed to be, that once we did believe
in fairy tales and dreams. That's one lie I am not telling anymore, for
it can not hold hands with the knowledge that life is what you make it
and you told me that, told me we make our own fate. I think I always
knew I would wake up one morning and would see what I see and that is
why I say we only resent ourselves, because we knew, we walked - eyes
open, we knew, it was just so easy - but we knew. I walk on my own,
knowing there are some secrets that I need for my self, not because
they are so dark but because they hold a key to a pattern I have chosen
never to face for the reason behind it may tell me that I walked the
wrong path, that at the cross-roads I failed the vital test. I know I
need to be needed, I know I need strong arms to make me feel like I can
move on and yet in return I also know I am afraid to give. One person
can not complete another, only each of us complete ourselves and
therefore I can not give myself to you or you yourself to
me?