Everything I felt, I pushed inside, pushed away so it couldn’t be seen. From the outside I never changed, because everything that might change me I shoved inside. But there wasn’t enough room. Soon things were packed so closely together that the heat of them turned into a spark, and they started to burn.
There wasn’t room for a real fire – fire needs air, and I hadn’t been able to breathe for a long time. There was no room inside me for air. Everything just smoldered at the edges and slowly turned to ash. I felt it, but I didn’t understand, and I pushed my worry away like I did everything else. When I finally saw what was happening, it was too late. It had spread too far.
I tried to stop it – I tried everything I could. Nothing worked. I was turning to ash from the inside out. Turning to nothing. Losing myself.
Ash is not so very dense, and after a time there was more room inside me. I took a breath. With a single, violent whoosh, everything inside me caught fire.
By the time I put it out, I had lost nearly everything to the flames. All that I had left I used to shore up my outside, to keep myself from crumbling into dust.
That was when I sought help. I knew it was pointless – had always known – but I was so desperate. I went to the ones who were supposed to know me best and showed them how fragile I had become. They were angry, and annoyed. They told me I was just weak, and needed to get stronger. They told me should learn to deal with my problems myself.
Now I fall apart every night. I mix the tears with the ashes still inside me and use the paste they make to glue myself back together in the mornings. I don’t understand how no one can see the cracks.
Somewhere inside me I can feel the embers still burning. Every day more if me turns to ash. Every night I have more tears to use for glue.
I fear the day the fire burns out.
I fear the night I run out of tears.
I fear what I will have become.
This is not me. I was thinking of you when I wrote it. Is any of this you, or am I still wrong?