worms

I confessed them to you today, my fears and insecurities. Words and tears tripped one another in a race to be first; every last ugly thought to make it real and raw and awful. Because they'll see I'm a phony, I said. They'll know I'm a loser, and they'll tell you, and then you'll love me less. 

You'll love me less, I said, and it was like turning out pockets full of worms. You didn't know I was carrying them around. You thought I was just a girl. But nope. I am a walking tackle box. You kiss me and tell me how happy you are, and it's nice, it's so so nice, but meanwhile? Worms. In my pockets. That you don't see. That I use to catch all manner of horrible, slimy, deep-dwelling creatures (that you also don't see). 

But today you saw them, and you said, You don't need those, baby. Or the equivalent of that, anyway. You don't need those worms. And you told me why I don't have to be afraid. You made me look you in the eye instead of the shoulder, and you didn't loosen your grip one bit, even though we were both covered in the worms that I have been carrying for a very long time, since way before you even knew me. 

And that is why I will always try to keep my pockets free of the things that can weigh us down.