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Printed from https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/2204403-An-Old-Castle
Rated: E · Poetry · Emotional · #2204403
We want the reward of being loved, but must submit to the mortifying ordeal of being known
I feel like an old castle
Picture perfect on the outside, just enough ivy and
         crumbling to be beautiful.
   Everyone looks and says
         "Wow, isn't she mature,
                   so strong."
  Scared to let someone in and see the mess inside the walls and want to clean,
         or feel like they have to clean.
Scared to let someone know that I'm much more
         broken and moldy that people think.
I want to be seen, I want to be known
 I want the sun to shine on all the filthy spots and hidden mold,
  I want someone to know and care and help.
 I want to ask someone in, to help me
clear away the dust
and yet
         I'm scared
     of inviting someone.
 I don't want to trouble you, don't want you
         overwhelmed,
don't want you feeling like
         you're obligated to help.
I don't want you to see the mess and think
         "Wow, who is this girl?
         I don't know her I've never
         met this you before."
  I've always been me, I'm
         still me
       You just don't know everything.
          I'm still me.
Every smile and hug and inside joke,
  laugh and cry and secret hurt
           we've shared
                   still counts
                             it's all real
                   it happened and
         it's valid and
  I'm me.
I don't want someone to see this mold and think
         "What else has she been hiding who
         has she been underneath this all along?"
I'm not a different person, and
this dust doesn't change the me you know.
My broken stairs and grime
         don't affect
                   the me you've always known.
I just need a little help,
need to share with someone, need to
         slowly take your hand and show you
         that I'm struggling.
  I just want someone to venture in and see
    that I need help
         that I desperately want someone to
          look at me and
           care enough to
            start
           to clean
          a little at a time
         a smile, a tear, a touch
         a little at a time
          to hug, to pray support, and
                   love and show me that I matter,
         and that I don't need to be afraid of
       staying here forever.
Someone who will come in knowing
    exactly what their getting into and
         choosing to walk in
anyway.
But I don't want to ask.
I won't burden you, won't force you into helping me clean up.
I won't share, won't open up and
   give you hints that
   all is not
   fine.
 You'll walk in, you'll think your broom and mop will
         do a perfect job of
         cleaning up my mess.
 You'll walk in, you'll think you know
         what to do and
         how to help,
                   and you will stop in shock.
              Because nobody knows.
              Nobody knows exactly what is happening or
                   which walls have fallen and
                 they aren't prepared to
         love me anyway.
And we were made to share and love and
    bear each others' burdens,
         but I don't need a cleaning crew to come in and refurnish.
       You'll walk in,
            and you'll be shocked.
         You'll know that it's beyond you and you'll
                bravely go and get some help and yet
         I don't want
their help.
       I don't need to have the mold all
       Cleared away, as fast as possible,
       I don't need you to fix the stairs entirely on your own
       I just need
   love.
I just want someone to know that I fall,
   that all the outside stones aren't
     perfectly crumbled enough to be
       pretty and good.
I just need a person to
    hold me and know when I
      cry and struggle and
         pray for me when I fall down, I just
                             want
                   someone to know.
         But you don't.
And I won't ask,
         my drawbridge paint too bright to see
         the shadows from inside.
My windows tinted
                        lovely shades of pink and green and gold,
                     and people who just look and smile who
                   never see my hand
               timidly open,
           waiting
         for maybe someone
       who looks and really sees
   that all I really want is just a best friend.
"Look,"
         they say
"See the pretty castle?"
         And I smile and wave and play the part
         and watch them walk away.
         And I'll quietly wait and hide and crack
                   alone inside the sunkissed stones,
             wishing for a smile and a hand.
But I'm fine at least
         I smile and pretend
         that nothings wrong.
      And I'm sure one day I'll make it, so
         I'll cling and wait and crack,
                   and cry,
                             and wait,
                                       and long,
                   sitting pretty on my perfect patch of grass.
Unwilling to communicate
         unable to say
       anything that matters at all, even how
             I'm at a loss for words
                   can't speak,
         exactly how I feel.
So you smile, you peer, you pry,
      but I can't let you in
         I wish that I could let you in but
      I can't let you see inside
the walls.
I smile and shake my head and wish
         that I could tell you everything.
     "I'm fine. Just
            a little tired."
  And you nod and talk and think
         that nothings wrong.
And I yearn inside and long to let you know,
            to catch a glimpse of what is going on and
         know just how I feel
    but I keep it closed and
 wish that you could see.
I barricade myself and build the walls
         so high and strong
      and wish that I could tear them down
          and let the drawbridge fall
      but I can't.
         Even though I'm hurting I can't
                   ask for help and make someone else
         bear my pain and guilt.
"Look,
           isn't the glass so pretty?"
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