I feel as though I am a delicate canvas that is easy to puncture.
I am nothing short of ambivalence and painted layers of conjuncture.
My passions try to trace themselves over on the paper before me,
yet the ink just bleeds
and it's up to my blurring vision to focus and rely on the competency of me.
With hiccup cries being held back behind the pillows of my bed at night
and the light
of a Himalayan salt lamp to illuminate me in the darkest moments that I dread to possess.
Within every word pressed
between these pages,
and micro confessions of the darkest sensations
and tendencies that have themselves standing up against me.
The only form of defense that is grappling, are the moments when I face it head on and
tolerate the discomfort of my demons until we are comfortable as friends and I can redeem.
And maybe we're all fearful of the same things
and have a hard time putting them into words that are lucid and self-reflective perfectly
enough to be unique to the self and mitigate through.
~Tina Meeks
