chore

I don't find anything clever about my insecurities anymore. These overwhelming feelings and distorted thoughts are no more than a chore. A chore I might have been born with, a mask I might've worn to lie to you and myself that I aligned with the norm. Paralysis externalized, my body scrunched like a worm. Read this, know me, my normalcy I'd have sworn. Muted speech and muted thoughts since the day I was born. Almost like there's not a point to explaining anymore. I've tried to explain, for who, whom do I implore? Scratch my itch, I'll be alive for just a moment more. I speak my piece, you see my face, I seem to be a bore. Every time my heart sinks down to meet my feet upon the floor. I can't help it, I've tried, and we were keeping score. The moment I was away, you stopped being poor. Needles seem to insert themselves in every one of my pores. I try again to meet your eyes, and now I ask "What for?" A stranger, a lifeline, friend I'll never adore. Strike this victim from my heart and give me a new chore.