Do you know what it is like to become a knife in your own back? To become the eruption of atoms in your vertebrae, tearing apart the foundations of your home?
No. No, you do not, and I surely hope you never will.
Broken does not mean beautiful. 'Fragile' and 'lovely' are not synonyms.
I am an unpaved road. I am serrated. I am everything there is but lovely.
I am the half-empty glass. I am also half-full.
I am everything. I am nothing.
I am the undoing of all things, and the restoration of one.
Broken glass. Sharp blade. Disappearing act.
Staying in one place has never been easy. I need to uproot and feel the pain of leaving. Pain is mandatory. Without agony, feeling is impossible.
Impossible. Irreconcilable. Unimaginable.
Can you not see that I am trying the be the kinder party? I am trying to love deeper and forgive easier, but please understand how hard it is when each step toward them twists the knife further and deeper.
Why is it that I am always the effort that they receive? Don't they understand that I break too? Can't they see how hard it is to keep the darkness from seeping out through my cracks?
'Cracks?' You ask. 'Don't cracks just let the light in?'
No. No, they do not. Light cannot penetrate darkness as thick as mine. The darkness I possess cannot be rectified. It cannot be healed by even those with most pure of intentions. It cannot.
I ask for you to see that, but I realise it is too much to ask. Everything I ask is too much, because I am the effort that other people believe they have the right to receive.
That doesn't make sense.
The inner workings of my mind never do.
My poems have become messy. This is me, cutting myself open, and allowing myself to bleed out onto the page.
You will never understand. I will never understand. Accept it.
I do not write for you. Or for me.
I write because, to not write would be to give up completely. And that is not an option.
I sit here, in filtered sunlight like a dying fern that should be thriving. I do not fit in. I die in places I should thrive. I do not thrive. I die. But I survive, and that is all that matters.
I wander past the slumbering giants, trying not to wake them, but failing every time. And they chase me. I do not know why. But I run.
I run from the encroaching darkness, from the giants, from the monsters. Should I be running? Maybe I should stop to see what they want. Maybe I should answer the knock at the door. Maybe I should let them in.
I am young. But I am tired like my whole life is already behind me. Is it wrong to be this young and this tired? Am I somehow defying nature's laws?
I am a house, collapsing from disregard.
Forgotten. Abandoned. Broken.
"Till death do us part." The words I uttered when life was first breathed into my bones. And yet, despite my heartfelt promise at such an age, I broke my vow. I left myself to die a long time ago. And yet I still survive.
My body is resolute in its desire to live.
My mind is determined in its decision to die.
So tell me: how am I supposed to go on like this, with body and mind at war?
Why did World War Three have to begin on the planes of my skin? Why did the nuclear bombs have to go off inside my mind?
I know. I'm just hitting my fists against a mirror. But I cannot help it. These screams have been burning inside me for longer than I can remember.
But I can't let them out. That would be abnormal. It would make people uncomfortable. So, of course, I have to keep quiet, and let it destroy me instead.
No one would listen anyway.
I am shattered.
I am bleeding.
I am a broken window on a September night, letting in the cold.
I am wild.
I am trapped.
I am a cloudy night sky, hiding all my secrets.
I am lost.
I am drowning.
I am the question always left unanswered.
Do you think he noticed? The difference between 'goodbye' and 'see you soon'? I don't think so.
I doubt he noticed how I held him for just a second longer, and the lingering of my voice on those three words. I don't think he saw the sadness in my eyes as they trailed after him.
I'm so sorry, my love. I'm sorry you won't know the difference. I'm sorry I can't tell you. But please, understand. Leaving is not easy.
Sometimes, things just feel off.
Like I have come home to myself after a long absence
and all my insides have been moved five inches to the left.