Everynight, I step outside in the damp grass, lightly shut the screen door behind me, and scream until my throat burns. It is the only time I can ever let my emotions out without fear of burdening somebody with them. One night, after my mother had belittled me for my tears, I continued the routine. But something had changed; the grass yelled with me. A symphony of sharp, tiny voices harmonizing with my own. The comfort of being surrounded hit me before the  strangeness of the situation and I went back inside. The next day, I creeped outside again, making sure to stay on the tiny patio rather than stepping on the grass. I whispered, “hello? Are you alive?”. But I did not get an answer. Loneliness crashed over me and as I started to wail the grass again joined in but so did the moon with a soft, mystical cry. I stopped to listen but the moment I did, the vocals stopped. It was as if nature thought she could not express her emotions unless I was expressing my own. It was as if she thought her emotions were a burden as well.  Maybe this was how people saw me. A person who could only spill out her thoughts and feelings if somebody had already done the same.