Hinges.

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My ink stained fingers tremble as I write this.
A memoir for my thoughts, for the empty life I lead, for all the things I felt, the things I never dared to say.
Here on this paper my thoughts lay, rest in chaos, intersecting thought, incomplete and confused.
I don't think I am making any sense but that is not the point to begin with.
The longing to belong to something or to someone is draining me.
I can't shake the feeling of oddness and of being out of place.
These thoughts are a bed of nails that I sleep in every night. They sting my flesh and I lay there and bleed.
I often wonder why does the world hate me so much? Or more accurately why doesn't it accept me as I am.
As I take a look back at my weak attempts at anything, I realize that maybe I am the problem. After all how do I expect the world to give me love when I can't give it back?
Except that..... I can.
I am overflowing with love that I have no one to give to,
I am a vessel, filled to the brim with compassion,
Spilling and overflowing,
Unintentionally making a mess,
It's such a heavy burden,
To walk around with that kind of weight on your shoulders,
And people don't see it,
Not because it's not heavy,
Because I've gotten good at shifting that weight.

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