Jump

I wouldn't bother. What would be the point. Stab the callous to feel nothing still. Except the warm waterfall of blood as it cascades over dead skin.

I never have been able to voice my feelings. So I write. It's a double standard. Men who write poetry are presumed to be sensitive and thoughtful. Women who do the same, whiny and malcontent.

We are as females expected to express our feelings orally. Yes, orally. In more ways than one.

I wouldn't say that it's too late. Just that it was never the right time. The minute hits me and all I can do is watch it explode. Collect the pieces after.

There's ugly in everything. If I look close enough. And beauty too. Yes, I see it. I'm still here, aren't I.

There's the nest full of fledglings high in a tree. One at a time mother will push each of her children out of it. Not all of them will fly.