fear.

fear of what people will think.

fear of what people will do.

fear of how they will react,

                                                 if at all.

anxiety.

trying to fit into standards,

squeeze between their dotted lines,

wear my face like everyone else,

talk like they do,

act like they do,

all in the hopes that they believe I am as normal as they are.


that my life is

       perfect,

that my family is

       perfect,

that my health is

       perfect,

that my mind is

      perfect,

that I am

       perfect,


                     even if I am falling apart.

I wonder how far you will go to satisfy others.

I merely pick up things here and there,
but you have a tendency to compromise parts of yourself to fit a niche.

You are fluid,
malleable,
able to swiftly transfer yourself
from situation
              to situation.

This isn't always a bad thing,
but I can't help but wonder,

how much have you given up so that others could benefit?

Here I sit,
watching the reflection of my past grandeur mock me from within it's folded paper pages.
The ink letters dance a mirage of bittersweet enjoyment in the face of my frustration.
The drawings of flowers twist and curl over the lines in the book,
clutching onto every word,
every syllable of woe written amongst the leaves.
Faces fall from petal soft whispers,
and within their atramentous eyes
I find myself lost.

I am angry
but too exhausted to express it.
So it remains smoldering
beneath shaking hands, and burning skin.
Smoke gathers
but it's not smothering the embers, nor the flame.
No, it's smothering me.