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  • Writer's pictureThe Damsel

Swirling-Moving Emotions

A Blank Page before me, a head full of thoughts.

Nothing written in ages, so many things to write.

I am a person who feels. The other evening my cat needed to take a pill. My mother asked me to put it in as she held him. I, a 19-year-old woman, did my best couple attempts. He mewled quite pitifully and my heart burst and tears came forth.

Once when I was maybe 7 or 9, some age not currently mine. My mum and I went through my room and cleaned out things that were broken, unused, unheeded. I threw away a broken heart-shaped music box. It locked, it sang, it was from a friend, and it was broken. We threw it away. Sometime, a couple weeks later, I was caught in a frenzy of searching. It may have been late. All I know is the moon was up when my father came into my room to find his daughter rummaging through her room, with a tear-stained face. I cried my heart out over that box. I sobbed into my father's chest over that box. I don't even remember who it was from... Nor my age... Or details. It was broken and I cried for its loss.

I felt.

With my 19-year-old tears, in mind, over a cat who's sick and doesn't want his medicine.

With my 7 or 9-year-old tears over a broken plastic box, in mind.

Let's think of lately.

About a year ago I got out of my first serious relationship, with an emotionally abusive boyfriend. I have dated a Marine who was lovely but broken and hurting. I have watched someone, who irks my feminist and human leanings, become president of the U.S. All this while I traveled along a path of faith. A path leading from confusion, in regards to the church I loved, to hurt... to helplessness... to a changing.

I have held silence. Because I feel so very much and this past year has been so very hard. I feel insecure in my feelings. I know so many people have it worse. So, who am I to speak of my feelings? Of my hurt? I want to speak to the pain of the world. But all too often I speak of the pain of my world. The world I am oh so much more familiar with.

But silence is not my answer. Poetry has been my leaning. Writing is just an extension of my being. So I'm going to try and forget myself, my insecurity, my uncertainty... the me.

I simply want to write and give into the swirling, moving emotions that are to be.

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