Don't turn your back on me

How hard this is to describe how I feel.

You’re not listening.

It's my past, and you weren’t there.

There’s this part of my body—it’s on the inside and I don’t know the name of it—that hurts in a way you’ll never know, even if I sit down and describe it to you.

You don’t have emotions, you tell me. Luckily, you have enough for both of us.

But I’ve cried, hurt, been hurt; felt depressed, stressed, tense, relaxed, in tact, focused, lost, in love, angry, and in sorrow. I’ve tried, lost love, lost loved ones. I’ve felt weak, worthless, and confident.

I’ve felt I shouldn’t have done something, gone ahead and did it anyway and have felt guilty. Like I knew I would.

I’ve lied and yelled and have been mean to people. I’ve held back actions and held my tongue.

Sorry I’ve not shared these things with you, these feelings you didn’t think existed in me. But you haven’t known me long enough to see me struggle, win, fall down, cheer loud, stay up all night, stare out the window, curse myself, talk to my dog in the park, gaze at the glory of a vibrant flower, bask in the sun, be amazed by a book, ponder creation, woe over people in my life I no longer talk to; call my grandma in the middle of the day for no reason whatsoever other than I know it will make us both feel good in a way that I could sit here and describe to you, but, still you’d never really know.

It’s because most of the above is depressing that, instead of audibly expressing the mentioned, I ask you: about your future plans, about your day, how your hurt leg is feeling, how your apartment search is going.

Just because there're some things you can’t see doesn’t mean they’re not there.

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