i feel like i have this story to tell. it's slipping through my pores and filling up my mouth. it takes a lot of restraint to not open the file on my desktop and plaster it on the walls. and that isn't some metaphor for life. this 2 page word document screams at me every time i turn on the computer. i have to keep windows and files open over it to stifle the noise. and even though people know the story, i'm afraid for more to know the truth, because if it hurts me to read, i can't imagine how it would make other people feel. people who care about me. it's a healthy anger, but one that i'm not strong enough to address.
the inhibiting white noise keeps me from participating in what's "normal." and i pretend to be okay, and not hurt anymore, but the scar is deep and reoccuring. it's baggage on top of baggage on top of baggage. i'm tired.
2 comments:
what the hell? talk to me!
you know what i'm talking about. worst night of my life, january when i lived on quint. i started to write a paper on it for womens studies but couldn't get past page two...i'll email it to you.
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