I do not know my own weaknesses, or strengths.
I do not know why I hate sleeping on my back, or sleeping without a door being closed.
I do not know why I cover up the scars that draw people to me.
I do not understand why some men are so hungry.
I create space around myself, even when I don't know anything about myself, even though the only thing I've been told is that I'm selfish.
I run on low energy because maybe they won't talk to me, and I express emotion through poetry because then maybe they can't see.
I do not know my triggers in the same way I do not know yours, in the same way I hurry to do my chores so I can go back to my room.
Will I ever understand why sometimes I wake up screaming, crying, lying although there's only me?
I am lying through my teeth, closed so tight they remind me of my door before he entered.
I believe a rhyme is less important than the punchline, that the message will be all that survives.
So, I write and I write hoping to feel right, hoping to move before life can take a bite of me.
But I am slow, why do I not know so many things?
I do not know my warnings.
©poetic_peh
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