You are my labor.
My labor of love. My labor of hate. You are my labor of intellect and stupidity. You are my labor of new ideas and old ones. You are my labor that I carry around and show off to the world while trying to look put together. You are my labor that burdens me more than it seems to lift me. You are the labor that I want to impress, but never seem to look my way anymore. You are the labor of my soul before I realized that you really weren’t. You are the labor that I fight, carry, pull and push around. You are the labor I feel like I have mistreated, neglected and left for dead when in fact I just didn’t want to get hurt anymore. You defend yourself while I labor to guide the feelings away. You are the labor I never wanted to have but have been given.
You are the labor that will never read or reread this post.
I labored this for you. And I don’t think you know how much.