The screen is my counsellor and typing is my therapy.
Tap, tap, tap; my fingers are fidgety, dancing on the keys and unsure of where to start.
How to explain, how to begin,
Sometimes things are best kept within.

Telling is like typing: hard to start, harder to stop.
I pause, as though on the top of a bridge, desperate to jump off,
Longing to take the plunge, step off, be free.
But scared and afraid;
What if I don't know how to get back up,
How to pick myself up
And go back to being me?
So I wait. I am falling leaves,
Drifting on the breeze,
Not in control of where I'm heading.
I am like leaves that need to be crunched,
Need to be used, need to be loved;
Instead I am left to turn to mush.
Tears, wet and cold, leaking from my eyes, sliding down my cheeks like trails left by slugs:
Slimy and disgusting, shameful and secretive.
Confused,
Bemused,
Concerned and scared, uncaring, a wreck.
Fractured and falling, tripping and tumbling,
Rotten, unstable: a building that needs demolishing,
A crumbling castle, a cracked vase.
So I sit, I sob and I write, keeping this hidden but so easy to find,
If only someone would think to look;
It's a game of hide and seek that they don't know they're playing.
Will anyone find this? Find me?
Reach down to this dark, desperate place and rescue me?
Pull me up to the surface, the sunlight, the stars.
I am a firework that needs to go off.
I need you to stare; shocked and stunned, amazed and in awe.
But you will never see the sparks or hear the bangs,
I am the firework left in its box;
Alone,
Unknown,
Forgotten. Waiting to be found, awaiting the fuss.