Atelophobia

I'm afraid to let you see the mess of my room, and to be honest, I think I have a right to be. After all, I know i haven't cleaned it in a while, and I know what it looks like. It's messy. I want to show you I do. But my pride won't let me. It tells me that if I am to let you venture across that border to lay your eyes upon the barren battlefield that is my room, your jaw might just drop. You'll see the empty pizza boxes and the crushed pop cans. You'll see the laundry scattered over my floor and the dishes that hide like Easter eggs. Pride... I am not proud of this, I'm desperate. I'm stuck wanting to be loved with all this mess, as me and the mess are one. Yet I almost wish I could blind you to it. Have you believe that I am perfect and I need to be perfect because I never really was enough and I know I'm messy, and I know I'm unorganized, I know... I know I want to trust you. My desperation is afraid to show you my mess. The empty pizza boxes of memories I haven't dealt with, the bad stories that hide within me like Easter Eggs. My head remains scattered like my undone laundry. I'm not perfect. Half of me wants the facade to keep on, the other half wonders... almost wants you to see my messy room.