A familiar heaviness plunges into my heart and disperses, settling in my soul It’s intensity forces recognition and demands my respect, and I miserably oblige… *Why* is this pain? It exists in true, I know, for it’s thorny vines have sprouted and grown inside my very own body. They cut and tear me and I bleed. My blood is innocent. It is pure. I see the beautiful glisten of my tears as they fall onto my skin. I look at myself in the mirror, expecting to see a stranger’s face, hoping that this pain is someone else‘s. But the face I see is my own. These tears are mine. It is always me.
