You tease and you taunt, you play word games in an attempt to slip me up. I won’t be slipped up. You may think you’ve got a handle on what you’re dealing with, but the honest truth is that you’ve only just scratched the surface.
While I may not be the wreck you claim to be, I am my own sort of mess. The sort that wants what it can’t have. The sort that is too open, too honest, and trusting to a fault. The sort that loves the person for and in spite of the mess they believe themselves to be. The sort that hopes for the best, foolishly believing that hope is all it takes. The sort that talks too much. The sort that says too little. The sort that is truly a mess when you get that glimpse at her core.
This mess of me wants a complementary calamity. I want that one, the partner, the cohort with whom I can partake in long-remembered adventures. The person who whispers for no other reason than for us to have a shared secret. I want us to begin at an intermediate level of belonging and attachment. I don’t want to dip my toe in the many waters, trying to find the most comfortable, not-too-hot not-too-cold body to dive into. I want to find you already prepared with the intention of welcoming my less-than-graceful tumbling.
Accept me with my lack of grace and physical control. Accept me in spite of the socially awkward and insensitive comments. Accept me for excessive honesty. Accept me for the mess that I’ll always be.