My eyes are burning.

I keep telling myself that this too will pass, that I can get myself out of this again.

But how many times have I gotten myself into this?

How many times will I make the same mistakes again and again,

choking on the courage and strength that I don't have? 

In my mind, I open my mouth and 

speak. 

I tell the world what I believe, what I stand for, who I want to be. 

And then you call me love and I fall apart. I'm too afraid to say that I'm afraid.

I'm too weak to deny you or me what our bodies tell us we need. 

I'm too worried about changing your opinion of me, of losing you. 

I can see myself powerful and brave, tall and proud; she is somewhere inside of me.

She screams and slams her hands against the walls and begs me to say what I need to say, to be free, to be strong, to be brave.

All I can feel is her disappointment. 

Ugly, cowardly, weak.

You asked me what my greatest fear was, just the other night, and I lied to you. 

It bubbles up and burns my throat like acid, digs its nails into my skin.

It threatens to overwhelm me, to slowly constrict about my neck as I apathetically let it.

I'm afraid that I will never be better than silent and weak.