The end.

Do this, not that.

Sit up, stay still.

Walk more.

Talk less.

Don’t stomp.

Lose weight.

Act like a lady.

Think like a man.

Be yourself.

Why do that?

Why didn’t you do that?

Be loving.

You’re kind.

You have nasty traits.

You’re mean.

“But I’m not!” 

My soul cries out.

“I wouldn’t!” 

Tears flow.

Always taken out of context.

Always misunderstood.

Kindness is seen as being rude.

Sadness, as condescension.

Gentleness too.

What hope do I have, in a world where friends see you, and hear such things?

Why continue?

How many times can a heart break, before it can no longer heal?

Tired, so very, very tired.

Loathing the self that others see, that others hear, my insides break.

I fall. 

Fall, fall, fall.

I cannot seem to catch myself.

There is no fear.

For there is no bottom to this well.

Only darkness.

The fall may stop.

Or slow.

I could rise up again.

I have before.

That is hope.

I slow.

Yes.

I have done it before.

I can do it again.

Just… tired. So very, very tired.

I cry.

Remorse for those that I unwittingly hurt.

Tears flow.

They don’t help them.

They don’t help me.

Still, they fall.

I cry.

No-one hears.

For there is no-one left to hear.

TRIXIE VARDON

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