The Mathematics Of Time

I cannot tip toe around myself. I'm always too aware.
My limbs feel like they are made of some kind of heavy dough, I move with such lethargy I burn from frustration, at not being able to keep up with my usual pace.
My stomach churns and grumbles all day.
I cannot forget.
Cannot lose myself to work or idle thought.
Every breath leaks sadness, and a disappointment in myself.
I find myself doing the mathematics of time. Find myself lost in evasive theory.
But I cannot gain any distance from the terror.

I cannot speak words the way I wish to.
It is not the lack of ears to hear, but my own distaste at them being heard...
My body shakes, and I can't stand how fragile I feel.
Oh. How I hate to feel fragile.
Hate to need- when I cannot speak of it.
Cannot admit to it.
Will not allow myself to.

I fall, fall to pieces.
And pick myself up.
For I cannot let anyone else do it.

Weakness...
Is it strength or weakness that stops me admitting
My own human need to be cared for.
For I can no longer fool myself that I need nothing.
And no one.