How do I go about this conversation?
Do I simply spill this little secret
That’s been festering in my soul since my conscious recognition?
What if it’s all a ruse–my thoughts insignificant, a fabrication of suffering
To make me unique in this vast world.
That is what he always told me.

Am I worthy of her worry?
If I stumble my words as I speak,
Or tears fall from my eyes,
Then she will know of the dagger pressed against my heart.
It will burden her–my pain–
And I do not wish to turn these knives in another’s gut.

So I will continue on as I always have,
Fix a new bandage every morning, nurse the opened wounds at night.
Maybe it is all in my head,
These blades only as sharp as my imagination; desperate calls for singularity.
But if these slashes are only a product of my mind,
And all those who walk this earth are united on this front,
What a sad life this is.