iceberg

He doesn’t think my problems are rooted in my anxiety, insecurities, fears, and anger. He doesn’t want to be the one to comfort me anymore because it’ll only make me bad again. He doesn’t know what to say when I feel like the whole world is against me. He doesn’t touch me when I think I am disgusting and ugly. He doesn’t believe that I will ever hurt myself. He doesn’t like it when I’m unhappy and he wants me to smile more. He withdraws into himself when I try to reach out (I don’t want to perpetuate this cycle) so then I cry more because he was the one I thought I could count on to hold me when I was already feeling like shit. So now I must be wrong. I must not be allowed to feel this way. My problems don’t mean anything. They shouldn’t reach into the depths of me. Because, as he said, it’s all just surface level.

Rue’s Affliction

First thing's first.
I am sorry that
                       I am unapologetic.
When I ask for your opinion,
I truly wish to know your deepest
desires and guilty obsessions.
I am constantly overwhelmed
by the foolish and the trivial
barraging on my thoughts—
threatening me, taunting me to give in.
When I call for you to "figure this out"
                       (right now, please)
I am insecure with my feelings
because I am aware that I shouldn't
feel this way anymore.
I am impatient, and brazenly so,
that I don't just play with fire;
I seem to intentionally harm myself
so that the flames are sure
to caress me with its singeing fingertips—
                       and then I still do it again anyways.
I become restless yet hopeful that
my ragged and torn intuition
will eventually guide me down the right path,
but I still feel anxious about
                       what happens next.
When I say these wretched things to you,
rambling and wreaking havoc,
I surely must be "asking for it"—
                       I know, I feel the same way too—
because I prod,
          pick,
          scratch
at all of the "little things" that really shouldn't matter.
It makes perfect sense that I start to
question myself and even
                       my own self worth
because I am still compelled to yell,
          argue,
          talk
until my voice is so hoarse and so deep
with residual emotion and with the
final exaltation of resolution.
Yet somehow, whenever I need/want
                       (both are one and the same to me now)
to speak, 
no one is willing to be sensitive.
Instead, they say they are sorry
but I know they are only being apologetic
                       for me.