I’m an idiot. I hide from myself. I’m afraid of myself. I distract myself with my own complete chaos. I ignore the fact that there will be an outcome, trick myself into being innocent and naïve. I send postcards from plane crashes. I hide from you, I hide from me, and I want to tell you so badly that I want you to feel sorry for me when I only ever end up feeling sorry for myself. I’m a nervous wreck. I start every damn argument, every damn fight. Even though I’m capable of recognizing when I am wrong, I’m never quite come to terms with the fact that I am just a human being. I can never apologize, only to myself. I’m a nervous wreck. “Live through your chaos,” I said to myself. Nothing never feels better than rock bottom. It’s a never ending rivalry between myself and loss of sleep over you. I never know when to stop. I’m a nervous wreck. I’m so scared of what others think of me. “Go away,” I say, and I’ll deal with it another day. I’m a nervous wreck. I’m sorry for having to always be near you. I’m a nervous wreck. I’m sorry for always trying to be anyone but the person I am most afraid of, me. I’m a nervous wreck. I’m so sorry I’m greedy, trying to wring every bit of humor from the annoyance, the humility, the humbleness, the strength, the quick tempered, like dish water and old condiments from a dishrag. I’m the annoyance. I laugh too hard. I never know when to stop. And now? I’m a nervous wreck. How can I be so self-centered, yet so afraid of my own thoughts? I’ve been trying to suffocate the bad side with a made up version of me. With too many made up versions of me. The “prankster”. The “genius”. The “knowing”, the “giving”, the “kind”. I’ve been selfish this whole time. I cancel myself out, because I am too afraid to tell you I love you. I’m a nervous wreck.