I don't like praise.
I really don't
So please stop.
Because compliments push me farther away from you
Deeper into my head
A detached state.
Of “no one knows me.”
“No one cares to understand.”
“No one can break me.”
I’d rather you rip the scars, reveal the flaws, and wreck my perfectly formed frame.
Praise commodifies my dreams
Praise adds to the expectation
Although it might acknowledge the effort,
It doesn’t do anything to kill the pressure
The stomach pains after too many hours thinking
About external achievements
While disregarding the important ones.
See, with praise, you’ll make our relationship monotone: nothing organic, nothing raw, nothing vulnerable.
Moments mudded with my insecurities of “what will they think, what are they thinking, will they miss me if I’m gone?”
I’m writing too much
I’m asking for praise again
For you to send me a text saying “yes, I read this.”
But do me a favor,
This writing is for you, yes.
I write for whoever wants to read
I write so you can get to know me at the same time I get to know myself
I write to be understood.
Words on parchment cast adrift inside a glass bottle.
A romantic undertaking.
I don't write for how well my writing isn’t
I don’t write for a good impressions.
And the sooner the praise is gone, the sooner I can start writing again
All pretenses aside.