All my life I have struggled with laying my soul
Bare via the words that fall from my mouth. Whether I was
Crying out for help, or expressing my own anger, I always choked.
Dying for someone to listen to my unspoken thoughts.
Emotions. My worst enemy, vulnerability has never been my
Forte. The pity in a person’s eyes when they see you crying,
Gawking at your broken and shattered being.
Hung on display to be judged and examined.
I never want to be looked at like that, like I am some kind of
Jaded and overdramatic, emotional little girl. My guts tied up in
Knotts. Who would want to listen to me bitch about my
Life, my perfectly fine life. Who would want to listen?
My life. My being. How should I put the contents of my being into words?
Naive, a naive little girl who thinks her problems matter.
Or, as a woman who worried too much when she was little.
Passionate and broken, angry and spiteful, tired and anxious.
Questioning every little thing around herself, about herself.
Radical opinions formed from living in a radical world.
Saccharine words, sweet nothings, saturated in manipulation
Trying and succeeding to shut me up and take their problems
Under my gaze, under my helping, healing, hands. My own problems
Vanishing into the very back of my mind, to rot, to
Weave themselves into more and more complex issues. My mind a
Xebec drifting across a sea of suppressed emotional torment.
Yearning to be set free from the chains of my own mind. The
Zeal to let all these words in my head out,
Into the world to be listened to, understood, validated.