Hard Shell, Soft Yoke
What is it that makes me weak? What is it that I can't sleep? How come the smallest thing triggers and the biggest thing withers? I know my God exists, but I do not feel like an easy fix. Why does everyone leave me? Why don't I ever leave them? I know I deserve better and yet I still allow others the pleasure. The pleasure to hurt. The pleasure to use. The pleasure to abuse. The pleasure to apply such a pressure that turns my black skin blue. 100 times I've said I was tired. But 100 times more I did not have the desire to walk out that door. I don't find being tough easy to do anymore. The tougher I am, the harder it gets to pretend. Like an egg. Hard on the shell but the opposite lies within. I am ready for my yoke to spill out. I am ready for my shell to crack. No longer can I be hard. No longer can I choose to react. I love a lot. I want to be loved a lot.
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