Inside Information

Retreating into the Covers

Christ,

He was strong.

Scathing whips and nails—

Drawing blood—

Only won in a physical sense,

His soul was too strong to conquer.

Then look at me:

Sure I had strength,

I almost lasted as long

As the Trojan wall—

Nine long years.

But all the same,

I know it was of no comfort

To neither the citizens nor the wall

When after ten years,

It finally fell.

I'm going to go to counseling next semester because I feel myself falling apart. Bilbo had to face his dragon, so do I. I was thinking today about how much work it is to be cheerful and encouraging to other people, not that I mind doing it. In fact, I do it because I am well aware of how lethal one's thoughts can be against oneself: that inner Satan that wants to see  us look at God and still give up. 

Life feels so heavy to me, but I wouldn't let anyone know it. It is a hard thing to vocalize: both in the literal sense of finding and assembling the right words to paint an accurate picture of what I feel and because it is hard for me to tell people, because then I feel like I'm burdening them. Why would I want to inflict anyone else with another person to worry about?

It all relates to my sense of self-value and image. I've grown up thinking that my feelings, especially the ugly ones like hurt and disappointment, aren't worth drawing attention to. I don't think me or any other aspect of my life is worth someone else's thoughts or concern. That's why it is hard for me to show my poetry to people; you can't imagine how sensitive I am about it and what people say about the precious words that contain my guarded emotions. 

I wrote this poem trying to reflect how defeated I feel: this sense of bricks composed of defense mechanisms slowly breaking apart. It's like I can slap myself on the back and say, "Damn! You lasted this long with this many issues? That's impressive," but it doesn't mean much at all.