I wanted to write a poem. I wanted to to break my sternum and rip open my rib cage just so you can see my beautiful heart, just so you could feel the texture of this beautiful heart because I have yet to realize how beautiful my heart is. I’m too blinded by all of the things I have convinced myself is wrong with me. So I feel ugly.

I wanted to write a poem. I wanted to slice open my head, making a thin incision with my pen only because I wanted you to see my beautiful mind. I wanted you to see how I don’t need genetic makeup to mask my mind in its purest form. I needed you to lay your eyes on this beautiful mind of mine because I’ve been blinded by thoughts of thinking I’m not smart enough. So I feel stupid.

I wanted to write a poem. I wanted to recite stanzas of simple similes and magical metaphors so that you would see these beautiful emotions swarming inside of me. I needed you to free me emotionally because it’s hard for me to believe I’m allowed to feel. I’m too blinded by emotional checks returned to me void, uncashed, and my account is full of interest. So I feel unwanted.

I wanted to write a poem. I wanted to give you all of me in the only way that I know how. I wanted you to see this beautiful personality. I needed you to see how beautiful I can personally be because I haven’t been able to see myself that beautifully, blinded by my failed attempts to love. So I feel worthless.

I needed to write a poem. I needed you to want me. I wanted you to need me. I had this unsatisfied urge for you to see this beautiful being. To see how beautiful I am among all these things. Because I’m still blinded by the circumstances, deafened by these technicalities, numb from being stung too many times by Love, therefore I can’t taste something this real. So sometimes I feel like I’ll never be loved. Is it real?

I wanted to write a poem. But all that came out were these words.