I find myself tangled in the lump of my throat. Trapped somewhere between my mind of logic and my twisted and aching heart I am dizzy with conflict. I am worth something. I am worth nothing. I am worth more than words can offer.
That familiar lump squeezes and twists my weary emotions as I grasp for a momentary breath of logic. A thought that reassures what kindness says; an understanding that I am so much more than what they said. But in that moment their words, their actions; they come crashing down on me as the lump threatens to engulf me.
Pain and bitter bile wash over me and the choices seem so non-existent. Why else would their hatred spiral? Why else would a child so young bear such deep and burdened scars?
It must be because I am worth so little.
The secrets that we shared. The secrets that I keep. These are the fuel to ignite a burning lump of torture. I struggle to move on and I struggle to let go while the lump clutches its tiny treasure. How do I feel my worth when all I feel is the pain wiping away even the smallest doubt that they might have been wrong?
I want to breathe. I want to feel the full capacity of worth expand until that lump of disbelief is pushed aside for good. I want to exhale until I know that they were wrong.
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