Baby, I don’t have the answers, even though I’m a know it all, so let it go; you’ll never know, nothing’s wrote in stone. You’re your own oracle, it’s just a fuckin’ poem. Sorry, baby I don’t have the answers even though I’m a know it all.

Some of this is true, the title is what caught my attention though. I don’t have the answers, and I am a fucking know it all. Don’t get me wrong, I know being a know it all is a bad thing, I just love information. I don’t have the answers to anything, my problems, your problems, the worlds problems.

Buyer beware is something I should have tattooed on me in giant letters. Buyer beware, of the crippling anxiety, of the agoraphobia, of the ptsd.

Dating me is like rescuing a dog who’s been on the streets for years, it means well, but it’s real fucked up.

I work on it, not consistently enough, sometimes not hard enough but I work on it.

I think a detriment to my last relationship was a partner that didn’t want to talk about past trauma, a partner that said the past is the past.

She was right the past is the past, but some things stick with you, they carry with you like a parasite.

The real hard part is when your memory is foggy about the past you don’t know if you’re just missing the bad, you could be missing good things too.

I like to think that some day some of the good memories will come back. Recently I’ve had conversations with people from a hard time in my life, positive memories came back, but not vividly like I had hoped.

Was the past with some people as good as I think it was? Or is that the hopeless romantic in me looking for my love story, the only thing I’ve ever wanted.

The one like the movies, where the guy fucks things up and years later they reconnect, and he’s able to fix it, he’s able to finally get the chance he always wanted, it ends up being exactly how he imagined.

Buyer beware, I have loads of trauma, and I fucking love love.

Where the skies are gold not gray, J.