Get so sick of the armored face, rough exterior with brutal edges. I get so exhausted from being a “tough girl” when really; I am soft and doughy on the inside. When I look at myself in the mirror, I see weaknesses between the lines. I see the curse of insecurity in every blink. In my breathing, in; out, in; out, I hear inside my head “not enough, not enough.” It is my mantra. My inner monologue is a screamer; a horrid person who does not like me. Does she want me to be stronger? Does she want me to be quiet? To cry less and scream more? I am not granite eyes, nor is my heart stone. It is more an enamel than anything. It chips; it cracks. And she; the one inside me, holds the hammer. She will win out and fortify my mean, just as soon as my tears run dry.

I am afraid of running dry.