Do you talk to people about me? Do you tell them my name? Are you honest about my flaws and mistakes? Or do you speak in riddles so that you don’t have to remember I’m not some cute blonde hipster from Portland? I’m brooding and bubbly and intellectual and broken. I can’t find a style so I do a little of everything. I’m scared of success and failure so I often sink in the middle of swimming. I’m only pretty sometimes and never in pictures and I’m messy and distracted and lazy but focused. Do you tell people these things about how my beauty is round instead of straight, how I’m loud and that my teeth are crooked and chipped? Do you imagine me honestly or how you wish me to be?
And then I wonder how I would talk about you? I can’t really except in poetry which is cryptic at worst and badly written at best, but do I tell the truth? Do I forget about your drinking problems and anger and inability to believe in yourself? I wonder if I ever mention how you refuse to communicate next to praise i give you for loving your family. I don’t talk much about how scared you are to be what you dream or that you self-destruct often and completely, a mushroom cloud of chaos erupting in your wake.
I want to tell the truth. Maybe it’s better to imagine the beauty instead of the bad. I don’t remember much bad. I wish I knew if my name crosses your mind or your lips. I wonder what you imagine.