Confessions of a broken, strong woman

I’m trying to bleed out on to this page. But the blood won’t flow. Maybe because in this cold world I’ve gone blue

I’m trying to drench these words in tears. But the water won’t flow. My soul is a desert, nothing grows here

I’m trying to feel something. I’m trying to grieve. Trying to release this sorrow. But maybe I’m made for this. Made for sorrow on sorrow. Maybe I am made to hold this insanity and depravity. I’m equipped for holding dead things. Dead dreams. 

I’ve always been told 2 things in my life: Roxanne; you are just too much. Roxanne, you are not enough. You are too much to deal with, too much to be around. Please understand that we can’t spend that much time with you: it’s draining. Also you are not enough; not upbeat enough. Not cool enough. Not interesting enough. You are not enough to inspire love in us. Not enough to keep us around. You’re not worth too much of our time or effort. 

Maybe I was made for pain. To hold it. To take the blows of this world and keep getting up. To feel my soul ripping apart at every inconsiderate action, every careless word. I’ve been born with certain sensitivities which my mother always tried to cover up. I’ve seen into the depth of darkness. I’ve lived there. It consumes you. So I try to stand facing the sun, but I’m blinded. I try to see colour but I don’t know what I’m looking at. I try to immerse myself in love; but it’s a foreign concept to me. I try to relate. I dedicate my life to loving others well. But is that really realistic?

I feel like a display at a museum, everyone passing by and living a life. But here I am. Stone. Just something to observe for a moment before you pass by to the next thing. I feel like an abandoned building that people make a temporary dwelling place when needed but that no one looks after. 

I’m soul tired. Bone dry. There’s nothing left here. If I’m lucky maybe I’ll be blown off in to the wind, my name only a distant memory. Like a whisper in the breeze.