Exhausted

There is too much inside and it’s exhausting.

I wish I could write and explain how deeply my heart cracks or how delightful it feels to be engulfed in a book or my bed, or even both. I wish I could explain how much I dislike myself and how lonely I feel, like I’m wrapped in all these layers as if there were a chance of implosion I won’t bother anyone around me. And it’s hardest when I think, when I am aware. But if I were to look away, to be distracted, I can keep these emotions from feeling so strong. But then I suffocate. The silence, ignoring my emotions at hand would be like not allowing yourself to yawn, it would drive me insane. And I wonder how other people live. How do their minds work? Do they not feel like this? Or are they comfortable with feeling so raw. 

I write like I’m pulling these wretched feelings out of me and throwing them on a canvas, forcing it to become art when all I want to feel is balanced. I want to feel stable. I want to know that if one peg is pulled from my tower the whole fucking thing won’t come toppling after. I want to scream but I don’t like the loudness. I don’t know what to do with myself. 

And I hate my awareness of it all. I apologize and smile like an embarrassed mother with a screaming toddler. How am I the mother and the kid all at once? I know that I need to reel it in but how, how do I stop feeling so much?