An Open Book

I’m inside out,
You’ve scrubbed me clean
There’s nothing left for you to see
I wore my heart where it got broken,
I wish I hadn’t been so open.

I’m an open book. Whether this is a good or a bad thing, I’m still yet to decide. There is a lot of talk aimed at people who struggle to open up and reveal their innermost thoughts and feelings, but not as much surrounding those of us who are perhaps too open. In the past there have been times when I’ve tried to close myself off from the world and live a mysterious and solitary existence, but it’s literally impossible. I have too many thoughts that push against the confines of my mind until I set them free. My head may as well be a beehive, because it sure does feel like I have a swarm of busy, buzzing little bees up there. Being the person I am, I have no qualms with being open and honest when someone asks me a question. Sometimes my answer surprises them, and their impression of me alters. I see it in their eyes; the judgement when they realise that I too am a human being and won’t always fit into the little box they’ve created for me. So, if people don’t want to know my answer or hear my opinion, they shouldn’t poke the beehive.




My Garden

I think a lot. I think far too much, about every detail of every day; every experience and every thought that blossoms in my head. In my mind is a garden, filled with millions of tiny flowers and weeds, and I’ve scrutinised every single one of them, inside and out. You could pick one, and I can tell you when it was planted, how often it was watered and the height to which it grew before I either let it die, or continued to care for it. I tend to my garden every day, all day. I never stop. Every new experience is a handful of seeds thrown in my direction and I HAVE to catch them. I pick them up, one by one, and make space for them to grow. Sometimes I plant weeds. Ugly, poisonous plants that quickly grow out of control, suffocating the beautiful flowers and twisting their jagged roots deep into the earth. I watch them destroy my hard work and cry when I realise that I’m the one that gives them life. I water them when I shouldn’t, and pay them extra attention when instead I should be ripping them from the ground. But it doesn’t matter how many flowers I let die or how many weeds I plant, I can’t stop caring for them because even though they’re poisonous, when they’re thrown in my direction, I HAVE to catch them.