Most times when the weekends, a time I sought all week, I feel the crush of water breaking, from dams vulnerable to bursting, I think of how my heart beat, the times I held my breath, pushing through another moment, all tiny moments,
culminating in a wellspring of tears, uncontrollable.

The pressure to perform, provide to those within my sphere, the comfort and the mercy that they need, like dehydrated sponges that wish to be filled, I fill. I fill and empty as my own wells run dry, the words I speak often volatile, like guttural cries from voices pushed down by hierarchy and stigma.

I wish I could say I understood everyone, that I even try, but I don’t. Only to those that understand me, will I give the gifts of my own. Closeness longed for, connection needed, substance to fill the vacant holes, unaware of my selfish reasons, drowned in pity and self-loathing, caged, repelling love as it seeks me, an ache without remedy.

Emily Cloward © 2018