Identity Crisis

[carose59]

Identity Crisis


I live in my protective coloring,
bending with the wind,
wondering if I lack the courage of my
                        convictions
or is it the convictions themselves I do not
                                           have?
(On good days,
the days I like myself,
I can be cavalier.  "I am large"*
                                    *see:
                                     multitudes)

The less I know a person
the more I smile and agree.

Well, why should I argue with strangers?
Why bother to show them the parts of myself
I'd only have to defend?
Who has that kind of time/energy/strength--that kind of endless passion?
(Sometimes I lose myself anyway, when I lose those arguments,
why put up for grabs what little I have?)

And anyway,
why not let them feel that someone agrees with them?
God knows there's more than enough people who will happily
tell you
how wrong
you are.

And those parts of me I show are just as real as the ones I hide.

(Yes, I've also lied to strangers; made up stories simpler than the truth,
or sometimes, just more interesting.)

And even when I disagree, it's delicately:
"Are you sure about that?"
"Hm, that isn't what I heard."
Gentle questions, not outright confrontation.
Not only because I've no wish to insult, offend,
But my own certainty in myself is fragile.
I've been wrong more times than

Felt wrong more times than that.

And smile.
Smile 'til my face hurts
'Til my head hurts
‘Til I wish they'd just go the hell away.

Some days it's tiring just to try to remember who I am.

Easier being alone.

Friends get less of that gentle treatment;
Move closer--
let me trust you--
and you will see the parts
      I do not show to strangers.
I will disagree with you.
I will hurt you.
I will let myself be
not-nice.
Difficult
(note: put that on my tombstone.
or maybe I need a tattoo:
         For a difficult time, call Monica Rose)

I can see that
It's not a good way to be.

When at last I feel safe enough to stand up
To be all of myself,
contradictions & difficulties,
     silliness & seriousness,
Butterfly wings of black crepe
The first thing I see is betrayal.

What happened to that nice girl?

Nothing.
She's still there, talking to strangers.

The last thing I see is goodbye.

I never before thought to say, she loved you.
She loved you enough not to be afraid of you
Enough not to be nice.
Enough to show you hidden rooms,
things no stranger,
       no acquaintance, will ever see.

Well, she doesn't say things like that anyway.

She loves hard and frightens easily.
And wonders if her own existence is just a figment of her imagination.

Comments

what do you get

[wolfdancer.livejournal.com]

when you get past the shell?
you might not like it.
it hasnot seen thelight of day
in so long.
I scarcely know my self,
I am afraid of that person that I used to be.
the one that cared to care.

that looked beyond the the now.

or the why or the who am I or who the hell are you.
Thank you for remind me of that.

Re: what do you get

[carose59.livejournal.com]

May I say, I really like your comments--and the form they take. *g*

Roberts Park

[(Anonymous)]

Monica Rose,

This is the poem that grabbed me so deeply at The Unbroken Bones Society. Thanks, it sums up so much of recent events and feelings for me. Gratitude...