I can’t tell whether you think I’m broken or dangerous. You should know that it’s neither.
You should know that, yes, I enjoy being alone, but no, I haven’t succumbed to a life of complete solitude.
Yes, I was sick. Yes, I’m better. No, I’m not suicidal.
I always keep a knife on me. Self defense is a good enough reason.
I still always eat the greenest food last, but hey, the garbage disposal finally eats less than I do.
I never check the time when I stumble to bed at night, but you can’t accuse me of welcoming the insomnia anymore.
I stopped going to the shrink. You can’t label me certified crazy.
I jumped because I wanted to fall, not because I wanted to fly.
Of course I love to laugh, and no, you aren’t funny.
You should know that hurts to run away, and that it hurts to do absolutely everything else, too.
I keep in my mind my safety, but the seatbelt burns my collarbone.
I never roll through stop signs, though. I like the way the brakes squeeze like my heart stops.
I never sit at a table for two, but the stools at the bar hardly count as company.
I always paint my toenails a happy color. Yellow. Red. Purple. The cool blue can’t show through that way.
The scars on my arms don’t read like a scroll, but rather a map I never needed.
Lying in wait makes me feel like a jungle cat instead of a field mouse for once.
I watch your eyes widen, but I don’t mention the coolness in your tone or the utter disgust on your hands after you’ve touched me.
I can’t tell whether you think I’m broken or dangerous. You should know that it’s both.
You look at me like I lost my spark, but no, I just needed to smell the smoke.