I've called out for help the loudest my mind has allowed me. It's like I just want to talk to someone, tell them it all. I want to tell them all the thoughts I've ever had. I want to tell them what I've lost and gained, I want to tell them what I've been through. I want to tell them what I was robbed of, and what I was blessed with. I want them to understand and know me. But the few times people realize this, they don't want to help, or they do. They do until it's too much, or they do until they realize theirs no self-benefit. They do until they realize who it is, me, the lair, the s***, the weird one, the lost one, the hoe, the annoying one, they realize what I'm labeled compared to what I am, and they don't want any part in those labels, but they want a part of me. That feeling overwhelms them and their gone, and I'm hurt. My mind doesn't allow me to call out for help, my eyes don't let me cry in front of others, my legs don't shake at the fear of myself in front of people, my shoulders don't tense up in anxiety around people, my mouth doesn't scream out of pain when I'm not alone, my stomach ties only into silent knots, I don't shake intensely at the things in my head when I know people are watching. My body works together to be a wall working against me, holding the real me and all that comes with it back. Sometimes I'm thankful for that wall because I get to points where I would collapse and scream and cry and tell the world how to hurt I am and how terrible this world can be, but I don't and thank goodness I don't because those few fake friends that make me smile and keep me upright wouldn't like me if I was really me.