Sunday

I can not keep it up, and I can not be what people need. I try to hold it together; pretend I am being honest when I am not so that people can love me. When I inevitably slip, and I share, nobody will want to listen. Too grotesque, too unsightly. I am too unpleasant.

I feel too filthy to be loved. I just want to be held as if what I am is okay, but I know that the residence I find within arms that I occupy must be temporary. When my weakness shows through my catch-net will shred underneath the weight of dislike. Who could love with foulness bubbling so close to surface.