Wednesday, May 21, 2008

Life Number Eight

Why is it that I can be so damned efficient and feel so stupid, so unloved, unsupported? I'm still in trauma mode. In my head, I know I need to give myself more grace, time to adjust, time to vent. But there is no one I trust to vent to.
Struggling to keep my head held high, inside, I am shriveled and small--pitiful, with selective tears escaping as failures march through my waking and dreaming world--unbidden, unrelenting. Who would guess the wounds? Who can see the bonds keeping me captive in this grief? Why is there no one to hear my screams? I am surrounded by humanity--supposed friends and lovers and family. I hear their voice... who hears mine?

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