Something I wrote a while ago, which is less & less true, which is lovely

Once in a while, we'll call it Monday, when bleak gets bleaker
I lay immobile. unable. I can't move.
I'm thinking its the thought of the thinking I'll have to go through in order to delicately figure out what to say to the
whos and whats and whens all day
the nicey nice niceties my lips display in whispers
sometimes i speak in "Hiiii's" and "How are yous?"
Nods and half smiles
and I wonder who I am
some sickly sweet pink fluff pustule, punch in and i'm popped -
but don't be offended, i do wish you the best, and i care about how you are,
but i don't fucking. know. WHO. you. are.
and when i'm on my back stuck to the sheets of sleep, paralyzed, its this in and out tedium my body won't consider.
when will i be brave enough to show you something raaaaaw, i mean fucking sail it in, from the little sea of unfiltered.
i spent years hiding in my own shame, until all i wore was bones
and i never once told the truth about anything because i was too empty to care
but i guess i'm not yet full enough to give some other human being my reality
i'm in the like it or not its your job limbo,
the fake it til you make it you better be funny and you better upbeat or you will never have friends
the smile a lot and signal cues to ensure sometime someone wants you
and i'm sickly swishing swirling pink fluff parade
a drain all clogged with meets and greets and man, don't i know, ha ha ha
let me tell you.
cynicism aside. its my choice, what i say to you. how i say it. and i do, i really want to know. how are you? who are you?
really?
i think i already like you.