I’ll call it fictional

Words are sneaky at times

In a room full of people,
I laugh and smile.
They say, "Oh, you're a poet.
How easy must it be for you
to put things into words."

Well, sure, I do.
The pen feels heavy at times,
the words unreachable.
I weigh my feelings,
my tears, my smiles,
write the ones
that have no need to hide.

But words are sneaky.
They play their games with me.
I think I'm good at hiding,
but I'm there between the lines,
roaming mindlessly.

Each letter spelled carefully,
the curves emerged
from unseen roots.
Oh, the corner was twitchy
because my hands shivered
when I wrote it down.

I tore up the pages,
burnt them quietly at night.
Even in words, I don't feel safe,
all my fears getting a face,
a permanent place to rest.

They haunt me as I carry those pages around.
It's better when you burn them down
or bury them deep in your mind,
constantly wondering:

Is it right?

Is it right to feel that way?
To make that cruel rhyme
so others can laugh at it
when I wept
the moments I saw it happening,
so real and alive.

Oh, tears will blend with ink.
I'll draw some roses using that blood.
I'll use many metaphors,
and I'll call it fictional.

But look me in the eyes once.
Tell me it's fine.
Maybe it'll give me the courage
to say -

Those words are truly mine.