Put A Move On My Heart

Overwhelmed by the catastrophe that clumbered around in her mind, she crumbled to the floor, curled up in the fetal position and then slowly crawled under the desk of her cubicle for fear of anyone discovering her break down. Her moment of weakness must not be seen. No one can see her crash, for she, her, is the ever strong female that younger nieces and cousins look up to, coworkers, friends, and girlfriends desire to be, and husbands and random men in the street want in their bedrooms or running their relationships. As much as she tried to contain the emotions that swirled around throughout each edge of her body, as much as she tried to hold herself back from falling into the neverending abyss of frustration, sadness and anger... it did nothing. She closed her eyes and cried. Under the desk seemed like the safest and cosiest place at the moment, where there was no one to judge her, no one to ask her for money, advice or guidance, no one to call her and ask her if she wanted to go out to the bar after work and knock back a couple of beers. She let out her anxieties and her hurt; every time her cousin attempted to fuck her or grab her titties came out in each droplet, ran down her cheeks and seeped into the corners of her mouth. Everytime her step-father pretended she was her mother and made her suffer for her walking out on them and leaving him sexually devastated came out in every clutch, twist, and squeeze of the hem of her dress. She wanted to scream and bawl out in pain and anguish but she didn't forget where she was. Instead she shoved her index finger in her mouth and bit down, clamped on it. She bit until it turned red, and when it started to bleed she glanced at it and remembered the way her heart bled when her father didn't show up to her high school graduation, her moving into college, her college graduation. She peeked out from below the desk and saw three of her coworkers looking down at her.

"Why doesn't she go get some fucking help?"