My inner child is a very petulant one. He is scared—nay, terrified. Fearful of bodily harm. Frightened by heights and loud noises. Constantly tense in anticipation of conflict. Overly worried by what others think. Constantly seeking approval to gain a temporary sense of self-worth. These are my emotions. They run rampant alongside an excruciating vanity that is merciless in its judgement and hateful of imperfections. Lamentation and hatred for asymmetry battle against the loved pieces. Like a statue that is pocked from wear and tear and formed nearly perfect. And I wallow in the self pity and despair, wrapping it around my body like a wet blanket, it’s weight somehow comfortable. The ups and downs swing ever more downward until the ups are not so very high. And all the while, the anger simmers, waiting to boil over and burn it all.