fear. it's the feeling where my throat is tight and my chest is tight, and i have to bite my lip to keep from throwing myself off something; where i go around trying not to keep putting my hand up to my mouth because i'm afraid i'll scream; where everything seems so much more so, and me always less.
it's the feeling for the sweepy songs. for the hard hugs. for the rocking. for the walks. for the writing.
it's the feeling i hate right up there with the guilt, probably because they are sister concerns; the feeling i get when there is the word disappointment looming over the horizon.
i don't know what brought it on. there are only two things it could be, and neither makes any sense. it can't be him, there's nothing there, i thought this had been put to rest. and if it's work, i still can't understand it. the time isn't that close, is it? it isn't. i can finish. can't i? can't i?
times like these are when i understand why cowardice is easy.
help help help help help help
The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seem limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your seccret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.
King and heartburn and phone calls. What am I doing with my life?
it's the feeling for the sweepy songs. for the hard hugs. for the rocking. for the walks. for the writing.
it's the feeling i hate right up there with the guilt, probably because they are sister concerns; the feeling i get when there is the word disappointment looming over the horizon.
i don't know what brought it on. there are only two things it could be, and neither makes any sense. it can't be him, there's nothing there, i thought this had been put to rest. and if it's work, i still can't understand it. the time isn't that close, is it? it isn't. i can finish. can't i? can't i?
times like these are when i understand why cowardice is easy.
help help help help help help
The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seem limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your seccret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller but for want of an understanding ear.
King and heartburn and phone calls. What am I doing with my life?
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