I tell my friends that I’ve discovered a couple of new moles
Erupted overnight, and that I’m terrified.
I don’t tell them that I’m scarily alone
That the scary part is how OK with it I am.
I don’t tell them how much I crave the solitude,
How the thought of “catching up” freaks me out
Because I never know what to say in these instances,
When we’re out and devouring beers and I’m like
3 pints in while they’re still halfway on their first.
See, I’m a writer, not a talker.
So I don’t know the adequate reply for when they’re
Telling me that their sister’s son is premature,
That their rent is overdue or that they think their S.O is cheating.
I can write a pretty hallmark card, even paint
Some somber cartoon, but never voice out the truth.
It might involve my truth.
My thoughts are loud enough that I run
From real conversations because I am hardly genuine
And more than a couple beers in, you’ll see me
For the fraud I may or may not be and deduce
The character that I’m currently imitating.
So I tell them that I just moved into my first house,
Instead of a cramped apartment and suddenly there are
Waaaay too many shelves and my books lay cluttered on my rug
And my bins are lined with empty wine bottles and
When did we get so adult?
I’ve learnt that if I talk enough
I never actually have to say anything.