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I've tended the garden
of your insecurities enough.
I'm exhausted

from the worry
of offending you;
here is a triple-edged

sword whose only
certainty is plunging
into my stomach,

the corner you've put me in:

either I feel silenced
because I choose to not speak
rather than face consequence,

or I spend the day heavy,
weighed by the guilt
that I led you to anger,

or I'm disturbed by how
any criticism renders you
uncaring on the couch.

There is no way out.

In this state
of helplessness,
hopelessness and disturbia,

I often find myself
waking in cold sweats,
traumatic ulcers opening

like black holes intent
on shifting the complex
anxiety in my gut

into two-dimensional,
processable data.
Sometimes I dream of

waking mute instead
so I'm no longer troubled
by the difficulty of trying

to communicate, to choose
which of the demons
I'll need to fight today.

When does fear end?

When I was a child,
and my mother said,
It's better to laugh

than cry, I hadn't
thought how intricately
this one truth

would weave smiles across
the depression that blankets
all visible horizons.

My Love, I Like Making You SmileWhere stories live. Discover now