she often had this feeling in the pit of her stomach,
more often than she cared to admit, actually
it was this marrow-deep disconnect,
this soul-withering fear,
this uneasy sense that she was somehow faking a life for them,
giving them a pretend childhood
instead of listening to her gut,
instead of allowing her soul to speak,
she often asked herself –
what would others think?,
allowing that thought to guide her actions
and that left her feeling like
she was wrapped in cellophane –
this protective barrier meticulously put into place,
meant to shield her from the hurt she so intensely feared,
but that barrier was useless,
a transparent facade
because no matter how hard she tried,
there it was –
the fear, throbbing behind her eyes when she knee-jerked a guilt-inducing reaction,
tingling in her fingertips when she felt the anger hide the fear,
an empty feeling thrumming in the center of her chest when she resisted her true self
and she couldn’t stop the constant
real of regret that played over and over in her mind –
there was something so fraudulent feeling about this way of behaving
the rituals weren’t real,
the smiles weren’t real,
the kisses weren’t quite real
real was right there,
in front of her face,
but she couldn’t (wouldn’t) quite reach it
and worst of all,
she sometimes felt like they were going along for her sake;
they could see right through her
and they knew they were being shortchanged
-art by Johanna Harmon
Heart Breathings 