How do I really feel? in The First Life

I no longer write.
I fear I may not remember how to.
I draw blank after blank.
Does nothing move me?

I’m filled with so much uncertainty.
I keep it so quiet.
I ask for permission.
I say sorry a lot.
Submissive, it would seem.
I hate it.
Is that me?

Sometimes I hope we’ll last.
Sometimes I think surely we won’t.
Eyes pierce straight through my willingness to think,
My words have lost value, it seems.
Maybe I’ve been wrong for a long time.
I appreciate the growing pains I have endured,
the inches I’ve leaped in emotional balance,
strength and security..

I’m not early 20 anymore.
I see my dramatic ways.
Always react,
like a pinched nerve,
immediate.
Stitch up the repercussions,
look back on them with a sad minds eye.
Regret was then, not now.

I look for his acceptance,
like I need it.
I used to need things like time and attention,
but I’ve got more than I can ask for in that regard.
There’s a balance to be had.
Do I belong here?
It’s so sterile.
I make noise,
I mess things up,
I leave fingerprints and marks and little things......
Is that okay?
It should be ok.
I’m human,
I’m loud, and emotional, and imperfect.
I’m not the same as he is.
Isn’t that alright?
I never will be..
the same, that is…
I am color,
and length,
and longevity,
and pulses of emotion.
I’m interruptions in thinking,
thoughtless devotion,
uninterrupted lack of self confidence.
I’m a whirl of bright lights, and doors closing loudly, and feet not landing softly, and messy articulation, and lack of realizing things I do quietly wrong.
And I should be allowed to talk back.
To disagree.
To cut with the knife leading my way, even if it means I’ll need stitches again someday.
And he should be fine with holding my hand while they sew me back.