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An Empty Field

I've stopped myself from loving. I've prevented seeds from growing, afraid I wouldn't be able to care for them. They might be planted in enriched soil, but they would never get the sun or rain they would need. I've ripped out bits of green poking out of the ground, because they were growing too strong for my liking. I stare at blossoming fields in jealousy, because my flowers aren't that pretty. Yet, I don't let them grow. I tear them at the roots, pull them from the dirt, because I am afraid. What if my flowers aren't beautiful? Maybe they will require more nurturing than I can provide. I prefer having no flowers at all, a simple patch of healthy soil, than flowers that might not even fully bloom.


I found this note on my phone, last edited in August of 2015. It hurts me to say this, but even today I still feel this way. I have been struggling with this very phenomenon a lot lately. Love is a funny thing. Every day, every person I talk to, I have to fight myself, go against every instinct I have to push them away. Everything in me screams that I shouldn't trust, shouldn't love, I have to stay away. It's exhausting, and there are days when I can't win the fight. Days when I simply push and push and close off all my walls, lock every entrance and set alarms on every possible way in. It is a daily struggle, something I have been warring with for years. I only hope that one day it will get easier. That someone will care enough to break down the walls for good, someone who will take my walls down and help me stop them from springing up again.

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