Number 14

11 tears on the pillow conflicted, scattered. Crying over things my brain says don’t matter. My heart says different. Typical, can’t shake it though. Odd hours each night, trying to look past the ceiling, angry with the Lord, always pleading for meaning. Always begging for something. Avoiding the issue. Ignoring my demons like the substance abuse, love I won’t let go, the past that I buried, “Troubled young woman” my head tries to be clearer. Then night comes, I’m trippin. Thoughts incoherent, anxiety attacking, as I struggle to breathe. The pressure, the pressure, more than it seems. It is what it is, no psychological blip. Spent. Exhausted. Talked myself from the ledge. How often I walk out. How often I’m lead.