Detachment

It's been sunny for a while, and finally the shadow looms back over, but unlike Peter Pan, I'd never try to sew it on; I'm looking for a seam tearer through wetted eyes, choked up cries. Stoic. I've got to shake it without crying.

I imagine really crying to my best friend, how she'd react: "Don't cry," she'd waveringly offer in a high-pitched tone, most sympathetically, though, as if my wails might set off her own water-works. And I'd try to explain that I always feel like I'm crying when I talk to her about what she already knows, that shadow that's glued to her heels, too.

So I wonder if when I'm upset and express that without crying, if people understand the gravity of the situation. Because its over 6-foot depth is filled with clay-laced dirt, suffocating, weighing in at around triple my own fluctuating mass. So when I talk about the source, or rather, "triggers" of my shadow's presence, it's taken god-awfully lightly. I'm expressing my emotion, but not crying. Which is why it pisses me off when people call me "emotional," or "soft." I'm allowed to feel, and I'm trying to explain that, without crying, so how am I soft? 

I'm not returning phone calls, playing it safe, so no one hears the shake in my voice. I'm writing through it, because if not, I'll crack. Nothing a phone call couldn't fix, yet I can't let people know. They think I'll take a razor to my wrist, so best not to induce worry. I just want to take a razor to the seam at my heels, just to shake the darkness that follows, but it's no use. Nothing can stop it, and it's stopping me from crowing.