Counting and calculating
have always been my strong
suit; whether it's people who
dislike me, the hours of sleep I
lose or how many times I think
how nice it'd be to sleep away time.

You remind me that there are
better things to count: like the hours
until I get to see you, or the days
that we spend together. My most
favorite, though, is when you teach
me to forget.

I forget the pounds on the scale or
the extra bites of dinner I didn't need
or the ****** people in my life and
their negativity.

These are the things I deserve to lose,
and gain other things and fade into you.

A plant can't grow
without sunshine,
rain or the proper
tenderness and care
that few with green
thumbs, of the highest
regard, can provide.

These seeds, babes in
their own right, need
soil and space and air to
breathe...a balance
tricky to obtain. Mother
Nature, the Provider of
goodness and grace,
fills the Earth with
endless opportunities--

Places for seedlings to
root and stretch their
stalks and leaves. The
soil, precise and sweet,
must enrich the vulnerability
it encases--a new being
so slight, that the swift
stamp of a foot will
obliterate it's existence.

There's a place in my body
that I can't quite place, but I
can feel it clenching and forcing
my swollen heart to race.

It roars when I'm home or
alone or with my love, but worse
yet when I need to depart from
them...when I'm empty of...

I don't know. I'm bombarded
with second guesses and pain,
wondering when I'll escape the
giant burden of blame,

that I push on myself with un-
reasonable expectations. And
feel inept and full of bitter, hateful
sensations.

Feels that shock my system in
whole. Static emotion that shocks
each person I hold, so near and dear
to a heart so true, that I want to squeeze on to my comforts like glue.

But I end up squeezing myself instead,
with anxiety and panic and sadness and dread. I don't have anyone or anything to blame, except a disorder
that strangles me ever so plain.

Don't I dare announce it or share it to all, for the risk of judgement, stigma: society's fatal flaws. The aftermath would be too gruesome to bear, so for
now I'll attempt to do what I can: repair.

There's nothing that
breaks me more than the
things I think and the words
I allow to slip from my brain to
my tounge.

A war rages on and on
inside my mind, but I'm afraid
to share it with anyone but those
who are forced to keep it a secret.
But does it really help?

Apathy. Indifference. Unaffected.
That's not me. Not a single part of
that is in my blood. My brain forces
it into my heart until I swell up and
break down into embarrassing pieces.

I'm tired. Tired of the faux thoughts
and the restless nights and the stomach
pangs and aches that remind me of the
crashing emotional waves that roar inside.

I determine who I am. I determine what I ought to be. I matter, God ******. If everyone else can see it, why can't I?