Holding a Grenade

It’s like holding a grenade in my hand, and deciding when to pull out the pin and throw it.

Like, do I pull and throw, when I’m angry for no reason?

Do I pull and throw when I miss you?

Do I pull and throw when I’m dying for that cigarette that I’m now holding in my hand, but I know that I’ll only disappoint you?

I know I’ll only disappoint you.

I’m like a grenade, when you’re holding me. I’m like a time bomb,

Can you feel me ticking?

I'm like a time bomb with my irrationality; like a time bomb with my love; like a time bomb with my thoughts and dreams and aspirations and I’m

Tick

Tick

Tick

Tick-ing

It’s only a matter of time.

It’s only a matter of time until I explode; until I let go, give it away and show you who I really am, what I’m really like.

Perhaps you already know.

Perhaps you already know and you like it; maybe my craziness is appealing; maybe I’m a challenge.

I wish I was a challenge, I wish I wasn’t so open, so easy, and so easy to read.

I wish I was a grenade with the pin in.

I wish a lot of things.

But I have that strange gift of knowing exactly what I am.

I am a grenade that you pulled the pin out of and you can’t remember how many seconds it’s been.

How long is it going to take until I explode, over react and fuck things up?

I am a time bomb.

So I take the grenade that is throbbing in my hand, pull out the pin and swallow it.

BOOM!

I’m too stubborn to let my explosion be public.

So I take that grenade, pull out the pin and shove it down my throat.

I’ll swallow it.

Keep it inside and never ever say a thing.

I’ll keep swallowing until you notice, until you realise, until you end it.

I will never say a thing.