to you,

If she's earth, her suffering is rain falling through tree crowns in forests, paths turning to mud.

If she's earth, her anger is lightning striking trees, her screams the sound of thunder.

The reason why I have an issue with being kind to others is that I don't love myself enough. How can I have enough love to share when I don't even have enough for myself?

And I do have love to give, I know. But I give it to a lover because it's so much easier to love somebody else than love myself first. It's so much easier to accept his flaws and encourage him to be better than do exactly the same thing for myself.

Is it because I don't think I could be better? Or is it because I haven't made enough space for my flaws? Is it because I refuse to embrace the shadow version of myself and repress it, instead of showing her it's possible to blossom, even in the dark?

My fear of being rejected comes from my rejecting her, over and over again. Rejecting her feelings, rejecting her existence, refusing to see the mess she's done. I don't want to gently hold her hand and show her the way.

I don't want to acknowledge her existence, so she screams at the top of her lungs and knocks her bloody fists against my chest. Her touch pierces holes through my aura. Then she hides and waits for her moment. Because as fiery as she is, she's methodical, she's vengeful and she knows her time will come.

She knows that only when she will ruin beautiful moments for me she will be noticed, she will be seen. So she picks her time accordingly and wreaks havoc in my life. And not even then do I choose to see her - I blame it on everyone else but her, the part of me that I repress.

And that only makes her angrier, more vicious. If this wasn't enough to make her feel seen, then she would have to cause even more damage. And more. When will I finally notice her? When will I finally look her in the eyes and acknowledge her presence?

I saw you today, I’m still confused.

I miss you. So much. I never cook anymore, you know? I miss it. Afternoon would come around and I would get dinner ready for you. I thought I enjoyed the process of cooking and baking - but it wasn’t that at all. You would walk in the house, hug me and we’d sit down for dinner together. We’d talk about our days.