I am in pain, it never stops
I fear that I am a walking open wound, a spigot that cannot be turned off
Hurt gushes from me in a steady stream, like blood from a gut-shot
I try to turn the knob, but the spigot keeps flowing, unceasing
Those who see me can see my anxiety, my fear, my pain, as if it were written on every inch of my skin
I try to be a good soldier. I try to be brave and strong and motivated to keep fighting
But everywhere I go I feel the eyes upon me, the pity in their gaze
They will never see me as anything but a sad little failure
A wounded cat who lashes out at the hands that stop to help
The part of me who wants to create new things, to give birth to new worlds, is the same part of me that hides under the covers and cries at night.
I give up before I start.
I fall short every time.
The tar pits of my heart are hungry for whatever affection can be absorbed, yet it is never enough. I yearn for love and admiration. I crave acknowledgement and praise. None will ever satisfy me, I am bottomless and forever empty.
I try to fill myself with food, with “medicine”, with laugh-tracks on television. I try to find information and gain knowledge and experiences so that I may feel confident in my abilities.
But no matter what I feel I am a liar, an imposter. I feel that others can see right through me. They see that I am pathetic, and lost. They see my thoughts wander into darkness, and they see the pain that envelops me against my will.
None can help me. None try, anymore. I am exhausting to them all. I am work.
I am work.
