dear honesty

Dear honesty,
I don't think I know you.
Oh, I've thought I did, but
seriously?
I mistake you for others, like a bigot
a rascist
maybe I should shake your hand
tell you why I say kind words to strangers
and choke my mind when I'm with friends
force my hope
through a colander
of half-wit
and
selfish modesty

nothing profound,
I've all but forgotten
how to open up without saying too much
how to pour without spilling.

as I write right now, I fight the metaphorical
the romantic, the vague
I remember decade-old advice from a TV show
"it doesn't have to be something meaningful, just something honest"

honesty, are you the truth?
am I being dishonest when I don't say what I want?
is it less true if I say it, than if I keep it away?
dye is deeper, darker when unused

is that what I'm trying to say?
that I think I'm weakening something to talk about it?
from where does that come?

childhood, no doubt; being told that my drawings weren't good enough
that I couldn't whistle on-key
that the lyrics I wrote shouldn't be shared
jaded by peer pressure
desires swallowed to appease an ally
graduation day

honesty, if I don't get to know you
how can you be my friend?
How can I invite you to dinner with her?