Another Long December

“the smell of hospitals in winter” is a lyric I wish I didn’t feel so akin to. I can feel that one in my bones.

I keep saying to myself ‘you need to write again’. ‘You need an outlet or you’re going to break’. Yet, the words falter every time I try. There’s such a sludge of things blocking my ability to articulate. There’s also the knowledge that I’ve gained over time that words have power and if I don’t wield them carefully they will betray me.

What I feel in a moment of passion, be that anger or joy, defies the reality behind those feelings. Haven’t been very astute at expressing either of those things in years. Everything has a haze and it seems to build the more I build a wall around myself. I’ve lost track of who I’ve built this wall to protect anymore. I thought it was everyone else, but maybe it’s really been me all along.

All the things that have been hard that I don’t talk about. That or worse, joke about in attempt to dull the depth of the pain that actually comes with them.

Everything boils down to the same jester I’ve always claimed. Human Eeyore at her best. Never wanting to be a bother, but eternally grateful for any thought or attention granted. Sometimes at her detriment. Always wanting to see eye to eye with another, to make a connection. Twist and shake in the bits that fit, glimpse the real when it’s safe. Close the door again. Lather. Rinse. Repeat.

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