Open Hands, Clenched Stomach
If I hand this over to you, if I open my palms, what will happen? Will you throw it back in my face? I am eating Saltines for dinner, I am ground to dust, my tummy is torn up. I am trying to be kind, to find my mother enough help so that she can the half-a-life she's living.
My mother, she breaks my heart. Her shame, her self-hatred, her not-good-enoughness all wound me.
Is it true, as I've been told, that I seem to think I was born to carry the weight of the world, to smooth over the rough edges? No wonder my stomach hurts.
I don't want to want so much. Want hurts. Want = exposure, vulnerability. There's the danger of publishing, but I can't forget: There's also a danger in hiding.
I have too much inside me. Something is pushing to leave, to exit on the page, on the screen. This blog is my exit ramp.