Why can’t I let myself draw?
Do I loathe who I am so much that
When I sit down, either cross-legged or
One leg up on my stool at the desk
My heart, my brain, my hand
The muscles are failing and sore because
Apparently I trained… myself, to do this… to myself
From a very young age.
I’m a protector.
If it can’t be perfect, then I don’t make the attempt
And if I don’t attempt, I cannot be mocked
For failing at the thing that I absolutely adore the most
The very thing that used to keep me alive.
I can’t let myself draw
Because then I don’t have to face that face in the mirror
The absolute adoring love hidden, somewhere in my house
That I apparently hid away long ago
In order to
The love that I have been running away from
So that I don’t experience the disappointment
Of never feeling wanted