​It’s Embarrassing

It’s Embarrassing

Cameron M. Nolley

So I’m crazy.

I know.

I know.

It’s honestly embarrassing.

I don’t want anyone to think I actually cared or anything.

Like—

I’m cool.

I have good taste.

Remember?

I hated being nervous.

That’s why I drank.

Because I’m a natural.

I’m naturally like that.

Some people know that.

I don’t care.

I don’t care!

The only rumination I want,

I pick it up,

put it back in my head.

I know, I’m sorry—

I must have insane attachment issues or something.

It’s weird that I feel like this.

I mean I’m such an Aries.

There’s no hiding it.

It’s weird that I still care.

People get sober faster than this.

That’s not a good analogy.

I’m trying to say something black and white.

Or less black and white.

Like sober and drunk.

I love you or I don’t.

Or I love you but I don’t.

Or I loved you?

I’m sober.

Metaphorically.

And actually, most of the time.

I just still feel buzzed.

That’s what I mean.

Anyway, I obviously look crazy.

I hate keeping things to myself because—

you know,

I’m such an Aries.

But I look crazy putting things out there.

I’d hate for anyone to think I cared.

Don’t get me wrong—

I did want to seem like I cared.

I cared.

I am soft and thoughtful.

Remember?

I was, right?

It’s so embarrassing.

I had a few menty b’s.

Like clinically.

I mean—fuck.

Yeah.

You get it.

#mensmentalhealthmatters

I care.

But I had to set a boundary

after seeing you like that.

My stories expired after 24 hours.

But apparently they didn’t.

It’s wild I didn’t understand

after the first two times.

I mean—

you would, right?

I think I would.

I’m a little too much.

This is embarrassing.

Why would anyone have sympathy?

Why would anyone want to know?

It must be unappetizing

to watch someone

exist too hard.

I must’ve looked like

how I felt on the inside.

I knew it was too much.

I knew I was too much.

That’s why I drank so much.

I hated the thought of being too much.

It’s not the kind of uncomfortable you can fix.

Not with benzos.

Not with a beta-blocker.

Not even the antihistamine pills.

It was music to my ears

whenever you said,

“It’s cold out.

What if we met for drinks instead?”

I didn’t want to be uncomfortable.

I still wanted to hang out.

I didn’t want to exist too hard around you.

Or in the wrong way.

That goes hand in hand, right?

Being awkward is embarrassing.

But I’m not shy.

I want to share my feelings

with whoever, whatever—

but it’s obviously inappropriate

even in poetry or whatever.

I shouldn’t do that.

I don’t even have a degree.

It’s embarrassing.

God.

It’s embarrassing.

It’s embarrassing

when you don’t know the right me.