Talking to You

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Talking to my father is a delicate art form

One that takes years of mastery

It's a developed fear because every answer is slightly wrong

Talking to my mother is an argument

We never see ear to mouth

Because she never hears what I'm saying

Talking to my grandfather is a debate

He's always right, even when he's wrong,

He's right

Talking to my sister is a bipolar pendulum

You never know which heightened side it will swing to

But it will never stand still at the medium

Talking to my friends is mask

They can still see my face, but rarely do I pull off to reveal the truth

Because underneath is a monster I wish them not to see

Talking to myself is a nightmare I wish to wake up from

Because talking to myself requires no courtesy call

No manners, no kindness

It's as abrupt as the storm breaking down the walls in my head

It's a sharp stab in my heart, a knife lined with truth

Because talking to myself, there's no limits

It gets darker and darker until I can no longer see the stars outside of my window

Because talking to myself is a delicate art form

An argument where we only hear ear to ear because all I can do is listen

A debate where both sides are right and I'm trying to prove them wrong

A bipolar pendulum because it never stops swinging back and forth and it only rests on the highs

A mask hiding the villain who robs themselves from joy and happiness

Because, in this world,

Talking to myself is all I have left

And it is a dangerous life to live

But someone has got to give the good fight

In order for everyone else to smile.

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