Soul Bleed

A thought occurred to me that the finer things in life rely on a mannerism. I couldn’t think of a life where I set my writings in your hand and you are somewhat displeased by the nature of them. I could not think of a life where I truly desire your approval of how I feel but you are too blinded by other things to indulge in my emotions. In most cases it was another woman. All the while, I was thinking I was the only female on the radar. And I moved as such. I didn’t understand this caveat that if the man had no congratulations for my release of emotions, then he might be jealous. Jealous of the feelings what I write creates. For if there was a true happiness for my talent it would show. It’s almost as if you wrote something and had taken it to God and he looked at it and rolled his eyes.

I no longer care. It took out the feeling of needing the approval of another person. It infiltrated the very deep hole I had inside myself for the lack of confidence he had. Confidence in me. Confidence in what I wrote. It bothered him. I could see that. I took a deep breathe. All I need to do is focus on getting to that room in my space that allows me to have the peace and approval of myself. Not needing that from another person. Seeing their approval as something that I could live without. Every step in the direction of ignoring the gift pushed me further away. And it was every time I allowed someone to read what I wrote and it didn’t resonate because they secretly held disdain for me; that I went back into that notebook in my brain and logged how I felt.

How could it be that you can connect with me without reading the very things I write? And how long after I write them do you want to know how I came up with feelings like this. Words like this. Emotions like this. There’s an explanation for everything. Every creak in my bones reminds me of an old house that needs adjustment. My heart needing much of the same adjustment after he broke it by not caring about the words that were bleeding from my soul.