I can’t face it.

Those faces, filled with disappointment and pity.

The half-hearted assurances I can’t believe.

I can’t face the feeling of failure;

Of them knowing that I’m weak.

I am weak.

Weak as a baby bird

Or a brand-new shoot.

There’s a thunderstorm brewing.

The fear climbs and claws its way in an out of me.

Tapping on my shoulders, it asks what I’m going to do.

Blood is like red pearls, and sticky and salty.

A simple sacrifice to emotion;

A plea to make it go away.

It laps at the offering, content.

For now.