Fear Makes Me Slow

I am impossible.
Impossible to love.
Impossible to love "too much" or "enough" to actually show up.

I make it difficult. I am difficult.
It's difficult to see through this smog that has collected around my face.
Masking me from a world of vulnerability.
Making me slow. With caution. No, with ignorance.
It's hard to be knowledgeable when you can't see a damn thing.

And I blow dry my hair straight and shiny.
And I spray on, lay on... more aqua net... more nonsense.

I have my eggs in about 14 different baskets, 6 states, a couple socks, and one sits shiny behind a toilet in a Philly apartment I once occupied. I am spread out. I am all over the place.

I am ruining this on purpose.
I am doing this on purpose.
I could just as easily become a collection agent.

But my foot has been out the door for months on end... and the months turn to a year and still, my foot is there... and it's tired.

And I know.
I know I am ruining this on purpose.
And I realize...
That finally I don't want to.

It's just this habitual mouth.
The habit of safety in offensive words and abrasive ideas.
It's wrapped tightly around me... a blanket of steal scraps and fishing line...
And I cannot breath.
And I am so scared of the cold that might come if I take a breath full enough to snap out of this.

And I scream and scream and scream - You cannot hurt me, I will hurt you first(!)
So why am I the one who's crying?
Why does fear makes me so slow to realize?
I am hurting myself.

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Today is the day I start collecting the many pieces of myself I have allowed to get away from me... or have too easily given away to strangers... past lovers... and the undeserving. Today is the day I get to the root of my own bullshit and allow myself to feel the discomfort of not knowing, not being protected, and being powerless to hurt someone else with my self-made jagged edges. File me down. File me away.