It is a sparkling lake in which I wish to fall, but do not as I know the lake will not catch me.
It is a radiant sliver in the sky on which I am not allowed to lay my burdens.
It is a tale as old as time that declines to set hope within.
Am I not worth the trouble?
Am I too much trouble to not ignore?
It is an open book imprinted with invisible words which will not admit I can read and do not believe when I can comprehend.
It is the grip on my heart that refuses to loosen, ever.
It is the exhale meaning never to leave my lungs.
It is my not untied stomach.
It is my being in whole shivering cold in sweltering, pounding heat.
It is the rest that never seeks to rest in me.
It is what I start but never finish; what I finish but never start.
It is annoying and frustrating and tear-inducing in the while I fight the will of my tears because this is what I am supposed to do.
The isolation is a beast and a beast is isolation.
Is it worth the trouble?
Am I too much trouble?
I am not a liar to myself, and it knows that.
It knows truth is the barrier at which I claw.
It is the laugh that, too, will not befriend me.
It is the potential curve that only wishes to be a straight line.
It is the totality of the universe whose design plucks mercilessly at my insanity strings to play a tune to which others choose to remain deaf.
It is the lack of beauty in my life for neither can beauty be found in my soul.
It is the despairing thought that maybe, just maybe, this time, someone is not afraid of me after all.
…but I understand why they are.