I’m not perfect. Nothing about me makes sense. The moment I open my eyes, I fight anxiety. I make living with PTSD look easy. Pain of the past lives under scarred tissue that your eyes will never see. Crying helps sometimes, but it’s the emptiness that sticks. Will you love me, anyway? Maybe, give my heart somewhere safe to reside. As long as it’s in my hands, I’ll neglect the love outside. Promise to stay close and I’ll promise to feel again.