In theory and practice + POEM: applerot

A bit of a different type of post tonight, I’m afraid.

People like the idea of me in theory, but not in practice.

They like that I can provide support, and I focus wholly on them when I idolise them.
They like the spontaneity, the desires and urges to do something unusual or different.
They like the creativity, the handmade gifts, the way I dress or look.
They like the way I chameleon them; flattering them by imitation.
They like the honesty, the refreshing frankness and openness about myself.
They like the way I think differently, and have unusual or different ideas about things.
They like the buzz at the beginning, the fun, the easiness in getting along with me.

They don’t like the rest of me. They only like the idea of me, the idea of all the good parts. Either I conceal the bad, or they ignore it until they can’t deny any longer that I’m not the person that they wanted me to be.

They don’t like that sometimes I can’t provide support at all, or I completely devalue them.
They don’t like the impulsivity, the desires to kill myself or the urge to self-harm.
They don’t like the doubt in my creativity, the forgetfulness, the way I can give up on how I look.
They don’t like that I don’t have my own identity when I’m not with them.
They don’t like when I shut off and refuse to talk, the lying and manipulation.
They don’t like the strange and harmful ideas, the breakdowns and lack of control.
They don’t like the buzz wearing off and reality setting in, the lack of fun and communication.

They don’t understand that I am emotionally unstable. They were presented with this partly obscured view, these lies, this lack of substance ready for imprinting. They don’t understand that it is difficult. They think they can save me by helping, or being there. They think their presence will save me. It’s not that easy. You can’t save me. Only I can do that. Sometimes I need help, sometimes I need a lot of help, but nothing you do will truly save or cure me.

Trust me, it is a constant battle raging in my mind. Do I welcome this person into my life, knowing full well that I am not who they believe me to be?

Or do I shut them out and protect them from every part of me?

Do I even have a choice? Do they need protecting?

Everything inside me tells me I am bad.

 

applerot

A shiny, sticky candyapple
rotting from the inside out.
You don’t know it
until you have already taken a bite.
Now it’s too late,
the taste is on your tongue

rot,

sour,

bad.

 

You don’t want it anymore,
you don’t want the rest of the apple now
But it sticks to your fingertips,
tangles of caramel

web,

snare,

entwine.

 

Caramel runs the length of your arm
You didn’t notice,
You were blind
You only saw the shiny apple,

new,

fresh,

glowing.

 

You fight to untangle apple and yourself
Haunted by memories, now sullied,
By the festering rot inside.
You plunge your applearm deep
Into the water

wash,

absolve,

free.

 

In your haste to detach,
The apple breaks.
Pieces float lifelessly,
swirling in their own sticky sediment.

disintegrate,

dissolve,

disappear.

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