You ask me to close my eyes. If I close them, the world as it is will be revealed to me.
It is difficult; some days more than others I find my eyes snap open, and closing them once more is akin to climbing a rugged, unforgiving mountain.
There's a hole in the wall. You tell me, as a last-second thought, about the girl who visited you today.
About the girl who visited you yesterday.
About the girl who just happened to be in the area last week.
I bite myself in the vulnerable parts of me. Hard. I claw and I scratch. Sometimes I feel violated. Sometimes I feel as though I am being defiled.
Sometimes I feel like nothing I feel is justified. If I closed my eyes, perhaps the lies would melt away. Perhaps I could see the world for the truth within.
I think about e-mailing a therapist. My pen taps nervously on the journal lying on my lap. Bruises bloom under the skin of a bitten lip, and these fingers seem to end in more wound than nail.
I talk. You listen. They listen. Nobody listens.
Nobody can hear me. Maybe I don't want them to.
There is a glass bubble in my throat.
I fear if I swallow it down, the pressure will crack it.
Never thought I'd die of a shattered esophagus, but never is a word we're taught to avoid for a reason.
So, there it sits. Patiently complacent. Twiddling its thumbs while I am listened to but not heard. Courteous while I am throwing away the trust I do not have in an attempt to feel connection.
The vulnerable parts of me leak. I am not satisfied. I bite a little harder.
I used to call it commitment issues.
It's the trust I can't seem to find anywhere.