He

He gets me.
He got me.
He’s had me.
He reads me,
And my writing.
And knows,
Not necessarily the meaning,
But my reasons.
He knows that writing,
Along with him,
Is my release.
He knows I write it all down
Because I can’t talk it all up.
He knows it’s my way of expressing my feelings
And pushing past my problems
I write,
And forget.
It’s as simple as that.
He calls it my catharsis
I call it bitching.
I see my writing as my greatest flaw
But he readily disagrees
“It’s a way of release
Probably the best form out there”
So, I’m good at something?
“Your writing habits will only bring you happiness”
I’m good at making myself happy?
Really?
I’ll cross my fingers
And hold tight to his words
Let’s hope his language is one of truths.
If not,
I apologize for wasting all this paper and ink
On a wasted effort
To be happy.

Medical Assistance Needed

I search for my confidence
It's nowhere to be found.
You've shattered it into a million pieces.
The sharp edges cut me deep.
The wounds won't heal
Bandaids can't cover tears.