Because, honey, screw it.
I can damn you with a little slap of my honesty and you will have to fucking thank me for it. I am 300 complaints packed in a suitcase filled with pointless maps and that rancid smell of uncertainty wrapped around my skinny shoulders like a shitty body mist. 400 unchecked emails of self improvement subscription and a boatload of the cheapest coffee laced with 4 teaspoons of brown ass sugar. I am a rattle of fuss and obligation in the morning but come midnight and I turn into a heap of inactivity. Always ready to jump at the closest cliff just to feel fear again. Mainly the reason why they scratch names on tombstones in the first place.
Because, honey, you won’t know.
I can stay on my feet for 3 days with barely enough sleep -practicing my craft and all the other things that make me rise up- and you will have to deal with the rush and jitter of extremes that pass through me like water. Unending, seemingless projects to keep my mind spinning as it whirlwinds downward in a caffeine haze -my heartbeat barely a whisper to the passing minutes of sleeplessness that help me calm slowly. I run through days at a slower pace because every second is a moment spent weaving pieces of my shattered self together.
I am charcoal stained fingertips and Jasmine tea. French movies with no subtitles and poetry with no subtlety. I am inconsistent heartbeats and quiet notoriety. Spilling reckless words and literary molecularity.
So, honey, don’t you dare make me your comfort pillow. I am worth more than your bullshit.
Just remember I might have to fucking kick your whiny ass and you’ll have to thank me for it.