Do I dare ask,
“Why can I not accept you as you are?”
Do I dare say,
“I cannot accept you as you are.”
Do you feel it?
Do you see it?
In my face?
In my posture?
I know you can’t continue like this,
so do you.
But I think I can do something about it,
and you know you can’t.
Right now.
Can I accept you,
without picturing a different you?
A you,
without sores all over your face—badly covered up by foundation—
properly dressed.
A you,
who doesn’t smell; overdosing me on repulsion.
A you,
who is one, not many—confusing the hell out of me—
loudly addressing the voices in your head,
describing too many details of lived or imagined horrors.
Would you be more at ease if I endured your behaviour,
realizing I am powerless to change you?
All you’re looking for is acceptance—to be loved
for who you are;
not for what you have become—or have to become;
longing for someone to look beyond the surface, the mechanisms you have built—
to ward off the enemy,
including me.
My intolerance
My methodology
My rules
My protocol
My need for order
My saviour-complex
You create chaos in my mind.
Making me,
flush under my foundation.
Stripping me,
of my confident appearance.
Causing me,
to sweat profusely, emitting an odour reeking of panic.
Inciting me,
to talk excessively.
Confusing me;
the voices in my head informing me of one intervention,
after another . . .
turning me into many supposed professionals.
Are we really so different?
You are out of control.
I am in control.
Or am I . . .
clutching at straws, textbook answers, losing composure and regressing to authority?
How can you get a hold of yourself when I am holding the power, looking like I got it all together, while you are exposing all your vulnerabilities?
Your life on display,
and all you read on my face is ignorance, fear, covert disgust,
The inability to accept you.