toward being an open book

I am that girl that you talk to
on a bus for an hour
who tells you her whole life story
I don’t know if it’s because I’m a writer
or because I’m a narcissist
but I will tell anyone pretty much anything
because I am always writing
and I’m proud of my work

I am a storyteller
and I can remember the most
mundane details about conversations
I overheard at a bar four years ago
and given the right mood I will tell you
all of them

My internal censorship board is very
lenient and
sometimes I say things that make other people
uncomfortable

I don’t blush easily
so most of the time I am simply
testing my limits
by testing yours
seeing what makes you squirm
and taking notes in my head
for my next story.

There are some things I’m not
comfortable
talking about.
things I don’t even like
answering clinical questions
about.

These are the patches that I
don’t wear on my sleeve—
the ones I keep tucked away
like a girl scout badge
that is only cool in certain circles…
well, never cool. but there are places
where it helps you
fit in.

Probably more places than
I expect
because one in every
six women
has the same badge
tucked away
but there are so few
sewing circles
where we feel
comfortable
bringing them out.

And sometimes
even there
I’m not sure if it’s okay—
my excuses ranging from
“It wasn’t as bad for me as it has
been for other girls” to
“It was a long time ago
and I’ve gotten over it”

The one I selected when
waiting four years
to tell my mother
that the monster under my bed
never hurt me
it was the monster next door…
and he didn’t really hurt me
exactly.

But I know now that he did
because I can’t even look people
in the eye
when I talk about it,
and never in specifics
because they make me shudder.

I don’t know if I’m protecting myself
or the six year old version of me
that I think should have known
better
even all these years later
partly blaming myself.

Girls like us
aren’t afraid of the monsters in
the closet
or under our bed,
even though we know that if you
leap on to your bed from far enough
away
he can’t get you.

Most of us don’t know that what
we’re really afraid of
is that no matter how hard
we try,
how many other misplaced
affections
we try to build upon
the one that
tried to break us,
how many times we tell ourselves
that crying won’t help,
how many time we tell ourselves
it’s best to pack it up
and pack it away…
we can’t.

But I think the only way
to make the monsters go away
is to wear those patches
on our sleeves
to cry in the arms of someone
who wants to help
and to forgive yourself
for letting down that
little girl
who thought the scariest thing
was the monster under the bed.