words are clumsy and imprecise,

narrowing complex emotions into simple groupings of letters

that do not adequately express anything, open as they are to

misinterpretation and minimalization.

 

even when i’m not falling into a pit

from which even the thought of escape

diminishes like the ever-decreasing fragment of light shining faintly from the top,

i’m aware of their futility and i slowly cease to make the effort.

 

sharing the anguish that crawls around under my skin,

leaving me empty of everything but rage

and an unidentifiable pain that makes breathing an effort,

is too hard.

 

describing the voices that are not voices that run through my brain,

and whisper horrible things,

and reaffirm in me the belief that i’m wasted work,

is too difficult.

 

the explanations i give, that i feel like a walking, talking lie,

that inside i’m screaming for help

in an effort to survive the dark and ugly twisted me,

seem unbelievable.

 

my soul is complicated and i lack the language

to describe the me i take such pains to conceal,

but that requires so much assistance.

 

perhaps there’s enough meaning here,

in these tiny and insignificant words,

to help you see and have you hold out a hand.

(july 23, 2018)