Perfect Storm

It's easy to say that I'm difficult to love, really fucking hard to handle, misunderstood, that people don't know how to deal with me because I never. Quite. Fit.

I am outrageously me in a world without belief.

It's another thing completely to realize that those words are absolutely completely true.

It's 10:00 at night, I'm browsing poetry and listening to this on repeat just loud enough that the child doesn't wake (pretty loud honestly. The kid sleeps like a rock when he's out).

I never realized that it was different to grow up talking to fucking trees, or never questioning the concept of controlling the elements, or feeling other people's thoughts. I never felt it out of place to hear the sentence, "I'm married to a witch, so"...

I never comprehended the concept of sitting on my knees listening to him explain to Omega that on my knees is where I communicate best, if you want to know my heart and soul, if you want to be heard and felt to the depths of my being, that is where to put me--any test of truth is going to shine through, me in my rawest form, odd to see I'm sure...

I didn't know that one is not supposed to laugh in millionaires faces and treat them like children when their behavior warranted such, that one does not (apparently) repeat unwanted truths to a CEO over and over again, or just outright fucking rebel against injustice, that to choke on your drink and announce that someone has no clue what the hell they're talking about is frowned upon...

I didn't know how absolutely abnormal it was to go around spewing emotion. That not everyone feels every-single-goddamned thing with a burning, all-consuming intensity.
Bleeding messy blood-red dreams shamelessly into a world of beautiful pastels...Creates difficulty.

I am not easy to handle. Part of never actually realizing that, was in not giving myself enough credit--if you think you aren't really all that much, you can never comprehend how much it takes to deal with you.

I could say that I am a combination of unstable elements, but the truth is, I am the perfect fucking storm.
"A 'perfect storm' is an expression that describes an event where a rare combination of circumstances will aggravate a situation drastically.^[1] The term is also used to describe an actual phenomenon that happens to occur in such a confluence, resulting in an event of unusual magnitude. The term "perfect storm" is nearly synonymous with "worst-case scenario", although the latter carries more of a hypothetical connotation."

I used to think that it was conceited to think of oneself in such terms. Now my brain's like, "Girl, you just fucked up. That ain't no compliment!" so we're all good.

I don't know how people keep it all in, often hidden even from themselves...
How does one never spill rage when they can feel it exploding in flames around them?
How does one bother to pretend when pain isn't rolling off of them in waves?
How in the fuck does one love just a little?? How do you hide that shit, ride it out like a secret that only matters in the night, hide it from the ones for whom you feel it the strongest, only feel it halfway??

People forget where they came from, decide there's some shame in pain, and hide everything behind their good name. It's the name of the game.
And when I find that I have to play, I discover that those whom I love and trust the most are the ones who pay, because spilling it out to them becomes an all-consuming need, preceding everything.

The truth is, we're all humans desperately clinging to humanity's remains. We live, we love, we fight, we get each other all fucked up. Mostly because we are afraid to admit our love, and in that silence, we either don't love enough, or we love entirely too much.