is harder

and harder

and the words swallow me up.

or do they swallow me?

am i gone forever, lost

to the digestion of

angry words?

can i pick the pen up

and attempt to write?

will the words like me?

I click faster on the remote.

The character on screen tries to obey my

flurried commands

to the best of their abilities.

I ignore my phone buzzing in

my pocket, the expectations

that are surely there.

I apologize to people, saying I forgot

that I didn’t watch the time.

To numb myself against the

pain that will soon come

from the other people, watching,

judging, me.

Truly, I am okay.

Or so I think.

I go outside the house to answer a call.

First time I’m outside for days,

though it seems shorter.

The call is short,

leading me back to my game.

I wake up

the next day,

ready for another gaming session.

But little do I know

that my mother has plans for the day.

She herds me out of the house,

as mothers tend to do,

and into the harsh reality.

I adjust slowly,

often panicking

but I return to myself,

not some shut-in.

The blank page

Stares up at me,

Taunting silently.

I feel the words

In the back of

My throat,

But they won’t come.

No matter what

I try, they stubbornly

Stick.

I force myself

To vomit up the words.

Nonsensical words,

Covered in gore,

Tears, and insanity.

I smear around the words,

But nothing changes.

And all there is

Is

Smeared Vomit.

-Text Copyright 2019 (c) Leigh Rachele Thrompt-

Choking,

Gasping,

Drowning in the desperation

And dark

Deep

Depression.

The tears

Stubbornly

Won’t come.

They’re hovering,

Nearly there.

But

They

Don’t define you.

Tears help

You

g r o W

To become

Something

Better

To what you

Thought

Was even

Possible.

But

The true

Tortureous

Torment

Of tears

Only come

When you truly

Transform.

-Text Copyright (C) 2019 Leigh Rachele Thrompt-

Mom

reaches over

and

h u g s

me.

"I love you, sweetie,"

She says.

"Love you too,"

I grumble,

smiling.

Sturdy.

What can be sturdy?

Clearly not a flower.

But does it have the potential to be sturdy?

It’s weak,

Flimsy.

Vulnerable.

But strong.

Holding itself together.

If a simple flower can do that,

why can’t I?

I feel so broken,

Fragile,

Delicate.

Like egg shells.

Brittle, like crackers.

Dried out, like old crusty raisins.

But can I be strong?

Can I be sturdy?

Is there potential in me to become better?

You say I can.

Help me.

Teach me.

I want to be sturdy.

-Copyright (C) 2019 Leigh Rachele Thrompt-

My hand shakes,

Quivers,

Reaching for

What I desire most.

Carefully,

I throw my

Weak

Pale

Thin

Arms around

HIS neck.

HE grabs my waist,

laughing as we

twirl.

S

l

o

w

l

y,

HE sets me down on the grass.

Saying

"I love you."