I am ashamed of my feelings. I don’t remember the last time I felt ashamed of my feelings.

No matter how much they bit and poisoned me, I would huddle in among them, analyzing and reveling until they let me mold them into something useful to me.
Proudly, I’d show off the trophy – the gutted remains of my teenage angst.
And people liked it. The product of my wallowing was beautiful.

Now, I neglect my feelings. They bite and they poison me all the same, but I lie down and let them trample over me.
Then I get up and I sweep up the mess and the stink and I hide it behind a toothy smile and a lilting voice.
I show no one, until I do.
It comes pouring out like a pathetic waterfall, soaking me in shame on the way down.
It is anything but beautiful.


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