I don’t like writing in that raw emotional state.
I don’t like being so sensitive sometimes.
I don’t like being sleep-deprived.
I don’t like it when I can’t tell if something internal or something external instigated my heightened emotional state.
I don’t like blaming other people
I don’t like making other people deal with my ultra-sensitivity.
I don’t like letting people know how ultra-sensitive I am.
I don’t like that vulnerability.
I don’t like that exposure.
I don’t like that risk.
There is something beneath that.
It is a rock.
A dark rock.
A rock the size equal to the magnitude of stomach pains I get when faced with confrontation.
It is a monster. A living rock.
That roars sometimes.
But only I can hear it.
I can hear it now. It is the scariest fucking sound in the world.
It starts in my gut and moves in the opposite direction of my food until it is at the back of my throat and wants out like vomit or a cry or a scream.
So I clench my lips and my teeth tighter and tighter together and try to put that fucking beast to sleep.
because if it comes out
I might die.
Or I might live. be born again.
But, I am too fucking scared to find out.
So the monster gets filtered.
Some of the monster is splattered in bits and pieces across the things I write and some of the uncensored bits of life that escape my restrictive mind each day.
But it hurts to let it out.
So I suffer the pain of holding it in.
and get monster sweat stains on my clothes on the really high intensity emotional days.
and wipe some of that sweat onto those I love and trust the most.
For better or worse
Intentional and not.
I’m a monster.