I consider myself a very patient person. I'm incredibly understanding and tolerant. And I'm very patient in conversation.
But this stomach of mine. It's not patient. It tugs at me, like a child pulling on its mother's shirt. Nagging at me to exterminate the butterflies.
I have a life, you know. I am perfectly capable of going about it. But then something reminds me, and my gut is fluttering once more.
Maybe it's the tremendous amount of trust I've placed on that shelf. Waiting for answer A or B is easier than waiting for the unknown. I may be patient with people, but I'm not patient with mystery. And I'm not good with 'off limits.' I'm nosy. And jealous. Though that's all easy enough to wrangle. But my imagination is worse than my stomach.
And then there's time. She's been both so good to me and such the little bitch lately. So these butterflies are flapping, and I've got more piling up each day on different shelves of my life.
Nobody's asked that much of me. In fact, I was right there, agreeing all the way. I just didn't expect my stomach to be so much like my animal. Roaring and pacing and interrupting... and difficult to tame.
Something will unclench me one day soon. I just wonder when. And I wonder what.
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