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
Can I accept you
Without picturing a different you
who does not have sores all over her face, badly covered up by foundation
who is properly dressed
who does not smell, overdosing me on repulsion
who is one, not two or many, confusing the hell out of me
who refrains from loudly addressing voices in her head, describing too many details of lived or imagined horrors
Would you be more at peace if I just endured your behaviour
Realized I am powerless to change anything in the moment
That all you are looking for is acceptance, to be loved
For who you are
Not 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
My need for order
You create chaos in my mind,
making my face flush under my foundation
causing me to sweat profusely emitting an odour of panic
inciting me to talk excessively
confusing the voices in my head telling me one technique and then another
turning me into many—supposed professionals—each different from the other
Are we really so different?
You are out of control
I am in control
Or am I
Clutching at straws, textbook answers, losing control and regressing to authority?
How can you possibly control yourself when I am the one in power, looking composed like I got it all together, and you—in comparison—are exposing all your vulnerabilities?
Your life an open book, and all you read on my face is ignorance, fear, covert disgust.