you are a china shop and I am a bull.

You try to be one hundred things you are not in the time span of three hundred and sixty five days. Three hundred and sixty five days of keeping secrets under your mattress and writing words just to be crossed out, thrown away again and you’re back to day one.

No one tells you that a month later you will be broken, split into pieces and you have so much anger inside of you you don’t know what to do with it. You shred up every word you never wrote because it stings too much, because “I don’t know how to be” doesn’t even begin to cover it. You could dig it up under the floorboards and matted carpet, look for holes in your skeleton to find what went wrong but you are Less Than Whole, you are half of yourself, split somewhere into two. Someone buried you and you bruise, you bruise even though it doesn’t show up on your skin, an ironic metaphor for every string that refuses to cut you loose.

So the lines of disappointment make their way across your back, turning and folding you inside out and it turns you into the pain on your shoulders and the lines on your forehead, and you want nothing but to disappear and make room for the people more beautiful than you.