When each rise is greeted by belly aches, a tight chest, the sharpness of tears in the throat that have somehow escaped past the first blink onto my pillow. This is anxiety.
I’ve lost the ability to dream.
Neglect, abuse and internalized oppression, both mine through inheritance and chronic exposure, has made me vacillate between love and rage, making one appear requisite for the other’s existence. Sometimes the two are the same and I nurture the fury and distrust the love, even my innate source.
Finding a voice somehow that no one wants to hear has taught me how to scream. I crouch to avoid tall glares, making myself small to dagger their ankles.
But I just want to stand up.
I regurgitate what has been force-fed. Silence is torture, but what words could I possibly utter?
Healing is a privilege beyond grasp or at best a catch-22.
I throw people away out of fear that they’ll never see or accept me, only my carnal shadow. And who could love that? This is self-hate.
Doubting what I know because knowledge only gets me in trouble.