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Thoughts, emotions, poetry and the works

Why I am

Why am I sad.
Why do I get sad in the middle of the night when nothing wrong happened today.
Why am I sad when I have a perfectly good person caring for me.
Is it sometimes just not enough?
Is my brain stuck in the past, stuck in my past wants and desires?
Why do I feel so undeserving of his love?
Why do I feel so disconnected from the world.
I wish I had an answer.
I feel like people around me are happy, maybe not very happy as if they were on Xanax,
but happy enough.
Happy enough not to feel incompetent, like a fraud in my own future profession,
happy enough not to question how they got into school and seeing it as some fake achievement, yet again undeserving.

I don’t feel intelligent.
And I don’t know how someone could love this.
Someone so unhappy with life,
so brought down and depressed about not achieving my dreams,
so upset that I can’t voice it.
So discouraged by my appearance.
I’ll go to the gym, eat healthy, lose a bit of weight if I’ve been trying super hard,
only to end up seeing someone thinner, without rolls, happier without saggy skin and stretchmarks. And that’s when I’ll start ramping up the self hate, the self-loathing, the constant stream of discouraging thoughts.

I have a long way to go. But I don’t know where I’m going.
And if someone were to ask me what was wrong I wouldn’t know where to start or what to say. I’m just unhappy. Maybe I was born this way.

Maybe my mother’s sense of constant stress created a baseline of emotion of being constantly stressed and unhappy. I’m not sure. But all I am sure of is I want it to stop. I want this to be over with. I need this to end.

Mad Silent Words

Mommy and Daddy told me to be a nice girl.
Nice girls don’t talk back.
Nice girls aren’t rude.
Nice girls don’t get mad.

Mad.
This silence is driving me into a self-eating,
self-destroying madness.
Mad.
It’s something I’m not allowed to be,
so I stew in silence.

In the silence I create
when I don’t use my words
to tell him
I’m a little hurt.
A little angry.
A little disappointed
that he tries to keep me in this bubble
away from the world.
Trimming my wings
until I no longer fly,
forget how to fly,
forget I could fly.

His tendrils of reassurance wrap around me
tainting me
with each warm embrace we take.
Little does he know,
I’m not a nice girl.

Cause Mommy and Daddy,
they taught me well,
Nice girls don’t
hide things.
Nice girls don’t
tell lies.
Nice girls don’t
complain.

So my chin is forced
high as things
get uncomfortable.
My lips are closed tight
preventing all thoughts from
leaking out.
And a smile is plastered over the
real expressions of my face.
Cause if you’re a nice girl,
Mommy and Daddy always said
everything will be
OK.

Love from behind the wall

Love:

What is it? What makes it so special? So Unique? Were raised being taught it can only be found with one person, that it is rare, and even that it doesn’t exist. So where did this love fable start and when did I start believing it? I went through the motions of love. I let you in behind each of my walls which keep everyone else out. But nothing penetrates nor leaves my deepest most solid wall. The wall hides the damage that I cover up with a smile each day when you kiss my cheek and ask me how my day went. That wall prevents me from feeling that little skip in your heart you’re supposed to feel when he holds your hand ¬†or pulls you in close. My walls are build too strong and too tall for even me to tear down. I’ve built a prison for my heart, somebody get me out.

The Cold

Sitting in an empty room
filled with heat,
hugging you close,
feeling secure,
feeling comfortable,
feeling calm.

A lick of a breeze passes by,
the air turns one degree colder than before,
the cold creeps in ever so slowly,
where is it coming from?
This room has no doors,
windows or crevices.

But the warmth is escaping
leaving in its midst
the cold.
The cold ebbing towards
the tips of my fingers and toes,
they say the extremities go first.

The cold creeping up on you in the dark,
like shadows dancing on the walls,
sneaking up on me when my back is turned.
The cold creeps ever so slowly,
clinging to the material woven in to string,
string into cloth,
cloth into clothes.
The cold vile and unseen
but it’s presence ever felt.
I know its there.
I can’t move.
Can’t block it out.
Any movement creates a vacuum of space
pulling the cold ever closer.

It’s a losing game it is,
the one we fight with the cold.
Before you know it,
even in the warm months,
it will slowly find its way back,
shocking my system
worse than I remembered it could be,
the warmer months were just a false pretense of gullibility.

So I welcome back those glacial winters,
with my warm arms open
heat escaping me,
into the waiting cold.
Cause it’s waiting.
And before I know it,
its here.

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