As someone who feels too much, I wish I could shut it out. Dial my emotions down by half. The sting of another's pain feels like the puncture of a hundred jagged teeth into my tender skin. The impression it casts takes days to subside. Sometimes months. Sometimes years.
The probability of holding it all together lessens as I pluck at the frayed threads that run along my joints. Once in a while, I allow for others to mend my broken parts, as if I am a doll in need of repair. The glue that fills my porcelain cracks, with time, has become stained and weathered. And yet, the children still reach for me.
I feel every word, like a hot branding tool. They steam into my hide with a burning ferocity I've grown to crave. I bare my teeth before impact, as a warning, but the hissing iron strikes back with venomous fangs. Marked by the hands of another, for the eyes of others who just want me for my meat. Little do they know it has soured. Doomed for the dump.
Ah, to be the auctioneer and not the auctioned. To be priceless; not commodified. A good for good's sake, not for the gluttonous consumer. I've grown tired of the demand. How can I be wanted when all I am is wanting?
I feel too much. Not the warm hues of the sunset, but the cold chill that follows. My lips, pale blue, with the troubles of you. I feel too much for you and I plead I wouldn't to a God who has long abandoned me.
I wish I could have been waterproof. Let my problems roll off of me one after the other. But instead, I am the spider, collecting each new terrible delight into my web, only to weave more room for the others.
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