Sword

I'm never sure if I want to write this much more. It puts a strain on me when people ask so many questions. It puts a strain on myself. It was supposed to be a way for me to open up. Be more open, but I suddenly don't want to.

Fear. Fear. Fear. It is a monster, haunting my trail, hunting me into exhaust. Some days I'm a great hero. Van Helsing or St George. Other days I'm a mouse, toyed with by the great monsterous cat, with its cat claws and teeth, that never fails to slice through my flesh, finding its weak points. 

Today isn't one of my good days. I'm exhausted, so that's exacerbating things. And he's slipping. 

I snatch the blame up so easy, but its both of us. We're doing it to ourselves. Hope is the great fighter, hope is my shield and my sword, my armor, my page, my horse. But its up to me to get myself to stand against the fear. To use the hope. Sometimes though, I let hope trip me up. My armor clanging heavy on my bones, my sword dull, my shield broken in the grass. Hope doesn't work then.

Hope works in the short moments, when I'm curled on your lap, and you brush the tears from my cheeks after I tell you that you give me butterflies. It works when you put your hand on my heart. Hope works when you remind me its these moments I need to use, to polish my sword, to fix my shield and to lighten the weight of my armor. 

I want to show you this. Soon. This week maybe. I'm feeling very fragile right now. Sleep should help.