near death experiences

you were one of those people
who liked 'quirky' stuff such as
indie bands in high school, bruises on soft skin, girls that are 'different', secretly guys too but mostly for the sake of some perverted intimate power play (homosocial desire in men)
reading forbidden texts and arthouse scripts, or my diary online
saying things directly at first but then hiding forever, playing the mysterious silent type role, while actually just a liar

and i was
just observant enough to know all that but not to care, self-absorbed at the same time, so that it never affected anything i wanted, so that i believed my own gut and probably saw more than there really was, which is déformation professionnelle btw
i was a hypochondriac
a mind reader
but also affected by many psychosomatic problems (some of which, turns out, were dormant multipla scelrosis, the joke's on me)

i still can't remember my last anxious episode, since i last saw you properly
i think it's been almost a year now
that i haven't felt irrational fear or crippling sensations that i couldn't explain with words

and fuck, nothing i write feels good or true enough

and i wonder whether anxiety is actually telling you when things are not right or real or honest around you
and how does it know
that people's intentions, gifts, words
are not true,
when even lies and deceptions
come from the heart?

i'm still here, sometimes wishing i was another one of those girl-next-door bitches with daddy issues,

that i was pleasantly down-to-earth on the outside, a caring mother figure on the inside, but essentially someone with a plan

but i'm not,
im actually just.. a bitch i guess?

and i wanna be cared for 100% of the time even though i do not present to be that caring myself
perhaps i pretend not to be
so they don't hurt me again
(or so they say)

but do i even mind getting hurt?
i don't think so
they can hurt me but ne i da me povrede

even though all this is true
i still have a designated person
in charge
to tell you that i always loved you most
in case something bad happens to me, or simply, when it happens;
but then again, i know you know
(not just intuitively. but you also read this)
so does that mean that, deep down, i'm still anxious?
and how will you know if it's true or just some twisted post-mortem revenge

and does it mean
that in that confession there's an order,
as selma selman said:
love me like derrida loved ghosts;
which translates so literally when im dead or just gone,
and is one of the few sentences in this world that i wish i wrote myself